


Pas de Deux

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Character Death Fix, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Fix-It, NaNoWriMo, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Romantic Angst, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21605491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: "A pas de deux is a dialogue of love. How can there be conversation if one partner is dumb?" -Rudolf NureyevTwo souls in delicate balance, neither attempting to outshine the other as they perform an intricate dance of life and death. What is marriage if not a grand pas de deux?
Relationships: Zacharias Barnham/Eve Belduke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**ACT I: ENTRÉE**

****

**  
**_“Life and summer are fleeting,” sang the bird. Snow and dark, and the winter comes. Nothing remains the same._ ** **** **


	2. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preface: Happy PL vs AA Day! I mean, technically it was yesterday unless you live in my hemisphere, but I'm particular about my stories having the proper dates and so I had to wait until November 29th hit my time zone before posting. 
> 
> This behemoth is a passionate labor of love for one of my favorite video games. I picked this game up on an actual whim back in 2015 (five years ago!?) because it had knights on the front, and I'm 100% about that knight life. Needless to say I fell in love with the game despite its faults and never looked back. I've literally been planning this almost since the beginning; arranged marriage au was among my first barnlaw ideas, but it took me this long to get the plot I wanted and the skill to execute it the way I was happy with. What started out as a simple idea has grown into a full cinematic universe with fix-it fic qualities, full canon divergence, symbolism everywhere you look... it's a Wild Ride, for sure, but I'm enjoying every single second of it. 
> 
> I started Act I for NaNoWriMo 2019: that's right, Act I! I'm posting these one act at a time, and there's four of them. Act II will be out... definitely sooner than later, if all goes well! But I hope there's enough content here to keep everyone intrigued, entertained, and ready for more when Adagio drops. For now, please enjoy Act I of Pas de Duex: Entrée!

_ Yes,  _ Arthur Cantabella thought, listening to the low rumble of distant thunder.  _ You do well to rage. _

The Audience Room’s broad windows opened onto a bleak landscape that mirrored the turbulence in the Storyteller’s mind. He leaned one elbow against the chilled glass, steadying himself as he watched a tempest brew on the southeastern horizon. Rain pelted the fogged windows, rivulets sliding to join the frothy stream already churning in the deep stone gutters. Several stories below, waves crashed against the cliff face, flecking the dark stone with foam.

A sudden flash of lightning dazzled his eyes, cutting a jagged path over his castle’s empty tower. It illuminated the arched bridge half-hidden in the mist, rolling clouds that clung like a miasma to the island.  _ A miserable tableau _ , he thought; one that belonged to the harsh and forlorn winter, rather than this late summer afternoon. 

He leaned his full weight against the glass, staring vacantly at the scene as it painted itself into being. As he shifted a pain began in his side, rippling up to throb in slow waves behind his breastbone. He braced against the worst of it, breathing deeply until the spasm passed. He was used to the pain now, as well as the near-constant fatigue. They were growing to be old friends, reminders of the disease that, even now, ravaged his cells.

Despite his weakened state, he made an effort to stand as often as possible. For one, the spasms weren’t nearly as painful when he was standing—but lying down had the same effect where that was concerned. The real reason for this forced exercise was, he had to admit, a selfish one. A dreaded reality loomed on the horizon, much like dark clouds obscuring the hazy azure.

Dependency.

One day he would be confined, first to a chair and then to a sickbed. He would be imprisoned, an independent mind trapped in a rapidly failing body. He dreaded the thought, the looming knowledge that one day he would be unable to rise without assistance. It was much better to stand while he could, and revel in the simple pleasure of being able to do so whenever he pleased.

A stormy afternoon like this would have been perfect for silent contemplation, both of his own fate and that of the city that depended on him. One day they would have to face the sudden, shocking, and completely unexpected death of the man that they regarded as a god incarnate. Arthur had no idea how they would react. He had lost his own faith years ago; it had burned away in the same fiery hell that claimed his wife and a good portion of his face.

However, he had also never interacted directly with the Divinity the way the people of Labyrinthia could with their Storyteller. Would anything have changed, had he been able to look God in the eye? Would he still have given up so easily on the concept of divine interference?

The heavy door creaked open behind him, shaking him from his morose thoughts. Shadows flickered as the rain-chilled air stirred the candles in their sconces. The storm’s white noise became a resounding crescendo, raindrops against paved stone and the muted roar of the sea.

“Sire.” He did not turn from the window, listening intently to the metallic echo of his servant’s armor in the nearly empty room. He saw the knight’s warped reflection bend at the waist, one gauntlet over his heart in the customary Labyrinthian salute. “The alchemist has arrived for your appointment.”

“Yes, I know.” He didn’t, of course, but it was easy enough to guess. Of all his guests this afternoon, only one would have reason to use the public garrison entrance. Newton insisted on making proper appointments, for both etiquette and practicality’s sake. No one in Labyrinthia knew of Newton’s true identity, of course; he was merely an alchemist, friendly and disarming. He needed to keep a low profile for that very reason; if the patrols were to catch him sneaking about the Audience Room without reason, it might give off the wrong impression.

“Send him in,” he ordered, dismissing the knight with a wave. He waited until the door was firmly closed before turning, one hand clutching at his side as the new movement redoubled the pain radiating there. Taking a preemptive breath, he steadily limped towards the conference table placed at his behest before the ornate mantel.

The rain had brought a taste of early autumn, ushering in a damp chill that permeated even the heaviest of cloaks. A fire had been banked in the massive grate as a result, its soft glow dancing across the dark mahogany table. Its crackling melody could barely be heard over the storm’s growing howl. It did little to brighten the room, in his opinion; it was pleasant enough, yes, but lacked the convivial cheer that any warm fire on a cold day ought to possess.

Arthur sat at the head of the table without ceremony, a disheartened sigh tickling his mustache. Hoot flew from the mantel, circling the table once before settling on the back of his chair with a rustle of feathers. The owl let out a inquiring coo, round eyes surveying the room as he tilted his head back and forth. Arthur held up one hand, allowing the bird to nibble his fingers with a gentle beak before smoothing his head feathers the way one stroked a friendly cat.

Once again the candles stuttered as the heavy door opened, but this time there was no accompanying salute or brash clatter of metal armor. Arthur listened to the steady rain, half-turned in his chair with one hand still raised to Hoot’s warm head. A tall, lithe figure emerged from the murky gloom on near-silent boots.

“Newton.” The alchemist passed his chair, his silent glide specterlike as he walked to warm himself at the grate. Leaning against one padded velvet armrest, Arthur studied his old friend with sharp eyes. Things had changed since Labyrinthia’s earliest days. Despite being business partners, their respective duties kept them from meeting as of late. He was used to months with no correspondence from the studious man, however…. Now that they were in the same room, it was all too clear that Newton had changed, and not for the better.

From childhood, the young lord Belduke had always insisted on being impeccably dressed; even during their tumultuous university years, when stress over his thesis had given him a nasty bout of flu, Newton had shown up to the hospital in his tailored vest and breeches. Now the clothes sagged from his thin frame, his illustrious hair thinning at the scalp. The light from the arched windows cast a muted, corpselike hue on his gaunt cheekbones.

Arthur let out a slow breath as he removed the Storyteller’s mask from his face—both figuratively and literally. He placed it before him on the table, fingers rising to map the facial burns by habit. They covered most of his cheek, flaring past his bangs to end at the scarred remains of his temple. He could feel nothing beyond a vague sense of pressure, but a sickening pit grew in his stomach as he contemplated their significance.

_ Thirteen years ago. An unlucky number.  _ As if sensing his thoughts, Newton unconsciously flexed the fingers of his left hand; the gauntlet he wore caught the firelight in a series of golden sparks.  _ Luck….  _ That was the word the surgeons had used years ago, on Newton’s last day in the trauma unit.

Of the Great Fire’s four survivors, Newton’s body had taken most of the physical damage. His left arm was a tangle of third-degree burn scars from shoulder to elbow, enough that they’d been forced to graft skin in a last-ditch effort to save the limb from amputation. It had taken months of intensive physical therapy just to relearn how to bend his fingers, pick up small objects and manipulate them comfortably.  _ You are lucky,  _ they’d said—lucky enough to regain mobility in a hand so ravaged by fire that his fingers had been in grave danger of fusing together.

Newton was mild-mannered by nature. That didn’t mean he was weak; in fact, he possessed an inner resolution that often outshone the world around him. His even temper had given him the forbearance to handle failed experiments, and had been an excellent foil to his late wife’s energetic passion. It had also come in handy when learning to control a hand that had lost its nerve endings.

But even Newton’s patience had its limits. Arthur could still remember the rare fury written on his face at hearing those words. Had the man not been exhausted, both from healing and trying to care for his traumatized daughter, the surgeon might have been in some danger.  _ I am not lucky,  _ Newton had hissed, weakened limbs trembling in barely suppressed rage.  _ I am alive. That is all. _

“So.” Startled from his thoughts, Arthur looked up to see Newton watching him beneath furrowed brows. Their eyes met and the alchemist looked away quickly, stoic glance falling instead to the empty table. “Our contract has been sold.”

“No. That is to say, not sold.” Arthur shifted with a wince, his elbow aching under the weight of his ailing body. “From what I can understand, we’ve been the subject of a direct transfer.” Newton’s jaw twitched, high forehead creasing as he worked over the news. His eyes never darted, they  _ swept _ , running the expanse of the table as though he could feel the smoothly polished wood with his irises.

“I see.”

“I’ve been lead to believe that this is nothing more than a courtesy meeting,” Arthur continued, tapping his boot against the plush carpet with muted thumps. “Mr. Factor’s correspondence seemed straightforward enough. He mentioned only that he would like the two of us to meet our new contractor.”

“Before the next fiscal year begins.”

“I’d assume that’s the case, yes.” He rubbed his fingers together absently, loose skin catching on his calloused knuckles. “It makes sense. They’ll want to know any objections we have before starting fresh ledgers.”

_ They  _ were the Department for Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy, better known as BEIS. To Labrelum they were more of a shadowy hand, hovering expectantly over every decision made concerning Project Labyrinthia. Arthur had a natural distrust of the government, especially when they enjoyed meddling so thoroughly in his affairs. But in this matter, his hands were tied.

Arthur couldn’t risk Project Labyrinthia’s premature end. His daughter’s health and happiness depended on its existence. Espella could only live a fulfilling life if she believed that everything her father wrote came true in the end. He’d vowed long ago that she would never again stare at him with that empty, soulless expression; he would go to any lengths necessary to ensure that she was safe from her own memories.

This, unfortunately, meant that he depended on the mercy of government contracts… and their resulting sponsorship. The project relied on the funding it received as a dedicated research facility; Labrelum Inc. didn’t make nearly enough profit to keep the city running on its own.

“In any case,” Arthur added, shifting again with a wince, “I have every faith in Mr. Factor, if no one else. He’s assured me that any questions we have will be promptly attended to.” Benjamin “Benny” Factor had been the Cantabella’s personal attorney for nearly two decades. He was also Labrelum’s official government consultant. Mr. Factor acted as a jolly middleman between Labrelum Inc. and BEIS, protecting both parties from any… unforeseen casualties that might arise due to Labyrinthia’s nature. Thankfully, his services in  _ that  _ aspect were hardly ever called upon.

“Mm.” Newton was a man of few words, but the noncommittal sound more than assured Arthur of his friend’s doubts.

“No matter. We’ll find out soon enough.” Even as he spoke, the false panel in the far wall opened to expose what, at first glance, could have easily been mistaken for a hospital hallway. Beige tiles and sterile white walls stood in stark contrast to the arched windows and 16 th century woodwork. One of Labrelum’s many aides stepped into the room, pausing only to acknowledge Newton with a courteous nod.

“Your guests have arrived, Mr. Cantabella. Shall I show them in now?” It was an odd parallel to his earlier conversation with the knight. Two aides, two messages: one in a polo, the other in plate mail. The contrast was not entirely lost on him.

“Yes, if you please.” He again delayed any movement until the door was closed; if he must struggle to his feet, he would prefer to do so privately. Newton, as both his physician and best friend, knew of his condition and was exempt; for him to see was no shame. He watched shrewdly as Arthur heaved himself to his feet, gripping the table for support until he was certain his legs wouldn’t buckle. Eyes narrowed on the hand clutching at his chest, ringed fingers digging into the shirt as he waited for the pain to pass.

“It has gotten worse.” No question, only a mere statement of fact.

“Yes,” Arthur admitted. “Some. But it’s the fatigue that bothers me most.” He took one deep breath, than another, jaw clenched as he willed the ache to stop.

“The pain. Does it keep you awake at night?”

“It did for some time.” Arthur swallowed, straightening his back slowly before letting the hand slide to his side. “But not anymore; I had Eve order a sleep aid last month. It’s worked so far.” Newton’s face twitched at the mention of his daughter; he quickly schooled his expression, but the spasm was damning enough.

“Ah.” Arthur glanced at the panel. By his watch, they had a few moments of privacy yet. That was to his advantage; he’d wanted to address the recent… incident after the meeting, but now was as good a time as any. “Eve did tell me that the two of you were no longer speaking….” He trailed off, not content with surmising while the truth lay before him.

“I’ve—yes, we’ve had a quarrel.” Newton averted his eyes, one hand rubbing his chin. When he looked up, his face was once again a passive mask. “But it was only a minor disagreement. I’m sure it won’t affect her work performance.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about.” Eve’s nature was that of her father’s—she was far likelier to suppress her emotions rather than vent them. For her to be so impassioned about something  _ minor _ was a rare sight, and one that weighed heavily on his mind. Arthur had chalked it up to a young woman’s flaring temper, but once several weeks had passed he could no longer ignore the signs of a clear split. “She didn’t seem to think it was so trivial a matter.”

“A misunderstanding,” Newton sighed. “I can’t blame her; she knows that I’m keeping secrets. It must be frustrating to believe that her own father can’t trust her.” He nervously fingered the lace at his sleeves. “It’s been simmering between us ever since I took Jean into my home. I’m only thankful that she blames me, not her.”

“Newton.” The alchemist shook his head, letting out another low breath.

“I can barely stand to look her in the eye anymore. I lie, I’m lied to in return… I can’t remember the last time we said anything honest to each other. I don’t want to know what she must think of me.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Newton. We don’t have a choice.”

“I know that.” He rubbed his sleeve unconsciously, outlining the scars hidden beneath padded fabric. “I can’t tell her the truth… I  _ can’t _ . But I can’t keep lying to her, either.”

“What other option is there?” Newton didn’t reply, his fingers still methodically dancing over his forearm as he stared, unseeing, into the grate. “Newt?” Startled back to life, he looked around before letting out a breathy chuckle and shook his head.

“You have enough on your plate to worry about, Art. I’ll be fine.”

“You say that,” he said, “but you’ve never been one to work yourself up over a few secrets.” Arthur rested one hand on Newton’s good shoulder. “You’re stressed and tired, my friend. Anyone can see that.”

“I’m fine,” Newton repeated firmly. Arthur could see the discoloration under his eyes, bags that spoke of sleepless nights. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one staying up until dawn. “It’s an old argument, anyway. It wasn’t the first time we quarreled on the subject, and it won’t be the last.”

“But—”

“’But’ what? Eve was exceptionally angry?” Newton smiled bitterly. “Yes, I know; there was an additional reason for that. She has plenty of opinions and seems intent on giving them a voice. When she gets like that she reminds me so much of—well, that doesn’t matter.” His brows creased in a sort of dazed amazement. “This time it was about women, of all things.” 

“Women?” Arthur stifled a laugh at his expense. Newton was no Casanova; it still amazed him that a bashful, anxious man like him had ever managed to marry. Newton Belduke, a ladies’ man? The very thought was preposterous!

“It’s only that some of the women are—well, in a word—amorous. More, perhaps, than they ought to be. It’s true, but I confess that I do little to encourage such ill-guided affections.” Now he merely looked uncomfortable. “Eve overhead one such would-be wooer in the Square and… expressed her doubt in my faithfulness.” Seeing the confusion in his friend’s gaze, he quickly added, “To her mother’s memory.”

“But,” Arthur paused, searching for a polite way to phrase his thoughts. He didn’t want to sound callous. “Newt,” he tried again, slowly, “it’s been over a decade since—” Newton shook his head, shooting him a look that stopped him mid-sentence.

“No, Arthur. I won’t.” His lips thinned. “Ever.” There was a measure of heat in his voice, simmering in the terse silence that grew between them. Newton cleared his throat and, when he continued, his voice was again neutral. “I admit, I lost my head. It doesn’t matter what she accused me of. I lost control of my temper and said things that I shouldn’t have. Certainly things that a father shouldn’t say to his own child.” He grimaced. “You can imagine how well it went after that.”

“Newt—”

“She stormed from my home.” His voice grew faint, a hoarse edge roughening each syllable. “I haven’t seen her since that day. It’s been weeks.”

“Don’t worry. Eve will come around.” Arthur sounded more certain than he felt. Eve could be very stubborn when she wanted to be, even more so than Espella. But beneath the toughened outer shell she was just as soft as her father. Surely that accounted for something. “She’s young and headstrong, but she’ll see reason once she’s had time to calm down.”

“Perhaps.” Newton’s eyes were almost dreamy as he tugged the long strand of bangs hanging over his cheek. “But I have little hope.” He was again lost to his own thoughts, worrying the curl between his fingers until the false panel opened with a rusty creak of hinges. 

The aide ushered two shivering forms through the door, bowing herself out with a promise to bring some refreshments. Being a small island, Labyrinthia’s weather patterns were often several degrees cooler than balmy London smog. His guests—one short, the other tall—were not dressed for the late summer chill; while not drenched to the bone, they clearly weren’t in the habit of frequenting poorly heated buildings. It was true that the Audience Room was built with secret modernization in mind, but it was plagued with the same stubborn drafts that most Labyrinthian buildings had in abundance. 

“Welcome!” With the meeting at hand, Arthur had no choice but to put his thoughts aside with the intent of mulling them over later. Being a CEO was the act of taking off one mask in order to don another; thankfully, he was well versed in the art. “Please, warm yourselves before we begin. You’ve come a long way, and I’m afraid that these stone walls don’t retain heat well.” 

“Don’t mind if I do, Arthur,” Mr. Factor replied, effectively dismissing formalities as he waddled to stand before the grate. A stout man of sixty years, his wide hips and stunted torso gave him the appearance of a misshapen boulder. He was all neckless jowls and joviality, furrows surrounding his beady eyes from years of constant beaming. 

“Newton, my good man.” Mr. Factor stretched his pudgy fingers over the fire, wiggling them with a sigh of satisfaction before turning to greet him properly. He craned his neck as he shook Newton’s good hand, taking it in both his own and squeezing with cordial affection before letting it drop. “It’s been far too long since we’ve seen you mainland,” he scolded cheerfully. “Far too long.” 

“Ben.” Newton smiled faintly, bowing from the shoulders. “It’s a pleasure, as always. You must excuse me for not showing myself more often; I’ll be sure to include time for lunch the next time I’m in London.” His expression turned expectant as he gazed pointedly to where the thinner figure still idled near the false panel. Thankfully, Mr. Factor was as shrewd as he was amicable. 

“Introductions! Of course, of course.” Laughingly he turned and gestured for his associate to join them at the mantel. “Gentlemen, allow me the pleasure of introducing you both formally to Dr. Helen Hywater, your new government contractor.” 

She was beautiful in a sharp way, with angled cheekbones and a bob pristine enough to have been cut with a straightedge. Faint frown lines sat squarely on the bridge of her nose, well-hidden with cosmetics. 

“Helen, this is Dr. Newton Belduke, head of Labrelum’s Science and Research department.” Newton offered her another bow, along with his hand. 

“It is a pleasure, Doctor.” 

“Pleasure,” Dr. Hywater repeated, offering a brisk nod in reply as she took his hand. Her pale eyes traveled curiously over his padded coat, following the bulky shape down to his high boots and back. They landed solidly on his cravat, manicured brows twitching; it was clear that she was taking great pains to keep her expression neutral. 

“And this, Dr. Hywater, is Labrelum’s CEO: Arthur Cantabella.” Arthur felt her bony fingers spasm when she caught sight of his brooch. Looking up, he caught her nostrils widening in the slightest flare. If she disproved of Labyrinthian couture, she kept her opinions silent. 

Hoot opened one eye to study these new additions to the room, letting out a soft, sleepy noise before settling back into his doze. Mr. Factor, having seen Hoot before, was used to this and smiled benevolently; Dr. Hywater stared openly at the owl, her brows finally losing the battle and arching high above her dark tortoiseshell frames. 

“It’s real,” she deadpanned at last, the squared shoulders of her suit jacket slumping under the weight of whatever emotion the sights of the afternoon had forced upon her. Her thin lips pressed into a faint pink line. Displeasure, then. 

“Yes. Very much so.” Arthur hid his smile, waving to the four chairs gathered around the mahogany table. “Shall we sit?” He took his own chair with a stifled groan, part pain and part relief. His limbs relaxed as subtly as possible beneath “I’m a conventional man,” he explained for Dr. Hywater’s benefit, “and don’t expect formality from my guests. Let us not rely on courtesy.” 

Dr. Hywater took the seat to his immediate left, placing her briefcase onto the floor before straightening her shoulders. Mr. Factor plopped rather than sat, his thick palms smacking against the table as he wiggled his large frame into place. Newton slid into the chair at Arthur’s right with his usual grace, tucking his long legs beneath the chair to keep them out of the way. 

The aide returned with a knock, wheeling in a brass trolley. Arthur couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the silver tea service; it was always a special occasion when he was able to entertain with it, considering the fact that most Labyrinthians would be rendered unconscious by the sound of an errant spoon hitting one of the beautifully polished plates. The aide laid out the gleaming dessert trays so that they might help themselves, silently pouring the tea before seeing herself out. Taking a hearty bite of his mille feuille, Arthur swallowed and cleared his throat before attempting to speak. 

“I do hope that nothing has happened to Mr. Bedlam.” He wanted to ask more directly, but to openly inquire wasn’t always the wisest of moves. Better to rely on etiquette, thereby preventing any social faux pas. In any case, these things were often confidential… especially if Bedlam had been released in disgrace. 

“Nothing of the sort,” Dr. Hywater assured him. She picked at a slice of pound cake, fork twirling slowly between her fingers. “Mr. Bedlam is perfectly well. He was given the offer for betterment and took it; he’s been transferred to a contract that offers many more…  _ opportunities. _ ” 

“I see.” Arthur could detect a subtle insult in the doctor’s words, but was that her intention? He glanced at Newton, trying to keep the movement as inconspicuous as possible. Newton stirred milk into his tea silently, but his eyes remained squarely on the pair across the table. He wished that he could see past his friend’s neutral frown; the expression was so rehearsed that it was often too hard to decode without asking directly. 

“Ye-es,” Dr. Hywater drawled. “As his junior, I was next in line for Labrelum’s contract. I’ve taken it over quite smoothly… with Mr. Factor’s gracious assistance, of course.” Her voice was lighthearted enough, but the corner of her mouth twisted into a half-grimace. 

“Well.” Newton took a leisurely sip from his cup, letting the tension draw tight before snapping it with a soft cough. “I think that I speak for both Arthur and myself when I say that we look forward to working with you in the months to come.” 

“Oh, likewise.” She raised her teacup to her lips, pausing before replacing it decidedly upon the gilded saucer. “Actually, Dr. Belduke: if I may…?” Newton’s brow twitched, but he nodded and urged her on with a small flourish of his long fingers.

“Please.” 

“Mr. Factor speaks very highly of your research, sir. I’m sure his praise isn’t unwarranted; your name isn’t unknown within scientific circles. You’re renowned in your field.” Newton let out a nervous laugh, glancing quickly at Mr. Factor before licking his lips. 

“I… I fear that I’m being misrepresented.” His shaky smile stretched thinner at the edges. “I am no man of prowess. I merely seek to know the mysteries of the world; science is only one of the many ways I choose to discover them.” 

“Perhaps that’s so, but it’s no secret that it was  _ your  _ anesthetic that changed the face of modern medicine twenty years ago.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Surgery hasn’t been the same since.” Newton froze, spoon clattering against the rip of his teacup. He let it go, fingers curling into a fist before resting, palm down, against the table. 

“You flatter me, ma’am.” His throat bobbed with the force of his swallow. 

“Yes, well….” Her fork was abandoned on the half-eaten cake, French tips laced beneath her chin. “When one is deserving of flattery,” she purred, leaving it at that. “Consequently, Dr. Belduke: are you aware of the theories surrounding the work of Dr. Alain Stahngun?” 

“Stahngun?” Newton blinked. “I-I don’t—”

“I only ask because, in a roundabout way, he’s the reason we’re gathered here this afternoon.” Arthur turned his gaze to Mr. Factor, waiting for any clue as to whom she was speaking of. He’d certainly never heard of any Dr. Stahngun. The name sounded foreign: German, perhaps, maybe Bulgarian. Mr. Factor seemed just as puzzled as he felt, his flabby jaw quivering over a salmon canapé.

“Is this doctor a friend of yours?” Arthur finally asked. Dr. Hywater shook her head, two quick snaps of flying brunette fringe. 

“Certainly not. I’ve never met the man in my life.” Reaching for her briefcase, she resurfaced with a crisp manila folder. This she slid covertly across the table to Newton, a cryptic light twinkling in her eyes. “Mr. Bedlam was moved to this contract.”

“Or, rather...” She tilted her head, eyeing him over her frames. “Maybe I should say that Dr. Stahngun has been given explicit permission to resume an older one.” She paused, seemingly for effect, as she watched Newton’s hand reach for the folder. “Given the nation’s current circumstances, it’s been decided that the reward far outweighs any risks.” 

_ Greed,  _ Arthur thought suddenly. That was what he saw in her eyes. He watched with new wariness as Newton opened the folder, flicking through its stapled contents with the mark of a seasoned professional. A small crease formed in the neat space between his eyebrows as he read, his mood shifting from curious apathy to concern. Dr. Hywater smiled, a mocking, triumphant look that showed off the edges of pointed canines. 

“I’m sure someone as well versed as yourself will have heard of the old Allen/Hawkes project.” 

The two names, strung together in that way, stirred something in the back of Arthur’s mind. There was something vaguely familiar about them, but nothing he could immediately place. They held the same wispy, translucent qualities of something he read in passing, or heard on the radio back when he regularly listened to it. Or… had Newton mentioned them to him? That was also entirely plausible; Newton often rambled on tangents about the research of his fellow scientists.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be anything good; Newton’s gauntlet clenched the report, crushing the papers in golden claws and wrinkling them beyond repair. He only managed to compose himself with great effort, centering his gaze on Dr. Hywater’s peaked face.

“There aren’t many in the scientific community who haven’t,” he replied carefully. He tried to smooth the papers into place, thumb catching on one wrinkled corner. “Even less,” he added faintly, “who believe their hypotheses to be credible.” Taking one last look at the diagrams and small print, he gently tucked the papers back into the folder and closed it before turning it facedown on the table. 

“Undoubtedly!” Dr. Hywater barked out a laugh, the sound cold in the warm room. She ran one finger over her lower lip, tapping out a rhythm as she thought. “Even so, Dr. Stahngun is a highly adept scientist. He’ll have no problem building on the work left by his predecessors.” 

“That may indeed be so.” Newton paused, and Arthur sensed a ripple in his friend’s stoic demeanor. Whatever this Allen/Hawkes project was, Newton clearly didn’t approve of it. “Then again, I suppose he also chooses to ignore the reason for the project’s abandonment.” 

“Oh. That.” Dr. Hywater’s fingers fluttered in dismissal. “A tragedy, true, but an accident that isn’t likely to be repeated. Dr. Stahngun has the advantage of a state-of-the-art testing facility, and the best parts that money can buy. There won’t be a second failure.” 

“I certainly hope not.” Again the air thickened with tension, but simmered as quickly as it had flared. “For Mr. Bedlam’s sake, of course.” 

“Certainly. I’ll pass along your… high hopes.” Dr. Hywater raised her teacup in a mock toast, sipping before letting out her breath in a sigh. “I have on good authority that the Prime Minister is equally intrigued by the possibilities. After all,” she murmured, watching the liquid swirl against the edges of her cup, “who would give up the chance to change the past?” Her tone was soft, nearly introspective, but it didn’t reach her razor-sharp grin. 

“Yes.” Newton was visibly shaken, there was no denying it. But he merely tapped the folder to hold it closed before sliding it back across the table. He didn’t speak again until the manila was out of sight, securely tucked into Dr. Hywater’s briefcase. “Sadly, I don’t take much stock in spacetime experimentation myself. Nevertheless, I wish Dr. Stahngun all the best in his endeavors.”

“Off the record, I’d suggest that you brush up on some of his theories. After all,” she laughed, “this time next year the rich and famous might be clamoring to pay for a holiday in 18 th century Versailles!” When Newton didn’t reply, her voice grew reserved once more. Casually picking up her fork, she pursed her lips before continuing in a much icier tone.

“That being said, Mr. Bedlam’s absence is only  _ one _ reason for calling this little meeting. He assured me that you both would be very flexible when it came to… suggestions. You see, as it stands, Project Labyrinthia has very little to offer BEIS in terms of—how shall I say it?—technological advancement.”

“We are not a technical institute, ma’am.” Arthur waved off Newton’s offer to refill his cup. “In fact, I’d say that we’re much the opposite. There is no industry to speak of; the citizens don’t require it, and we do our best to stop progress before it begins.” 

“There are extensive measures in place to ensure that the city remains in a state of near-constant stasis,” Newton explained. “It’s the only way we can establish a stable baseline for the data we collect from its citizens. Fundamentally speaking, Labyrinthia hasn’t changed at all since its conception.”

“Yes, and that’s very much the problem.” Dr. Hywater drained her cup, nose tilting sharply to study the dark leaves gathered at the bottom. She pursed her lips at whatever she saw there, shaking her head before motioning to Newton for the teapot. “Labyrinthia’s data is beneficial, but there’s only so much you can pull from it. There’s no new stimuli to change up the numbers.”

“There was never meant to be any new stimuli,” Arthur argued. “The Creation of a Fully-Controlled Town with the Inhabitants Subject to Long-Term Hypnosis: that was the concept we proposed to BEIS thirteen years ago. There was nothing about—”

“I don’t wish to alarm either of you,” she stated calmly, pouring another cup for herself. “But with the new budget cuts, there’s been talk of tabling the project indefinitely.”

“T-tabling?”

“A discussion considering the concept of renewal, I should say. It would effectively retire the contract without a costly formal sendoff.”

“But… they wish to shut down Labyrinthia?” A panic seized him, his ailing heart stuttering as it tried to keep pace.

“Wishing has little to do with it, sir.” Dr. Hywater smiled. “It’s business, nothing more. After all, BEIS is putting a good sum of money into this island, and for what? Old, obsolete data? Research that’s hardly useful outside the field of modern medicine?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, ma’am.” Newton bristled, his pride wounded at the suggestion that his life’s work was nothing more than a waste of everyone’s time.

“I wouldn’t, either.” Dr. Hywater stared at the silver tongs of her fork before stabbing it forcefully into the remains of her cake. “That, gentlemen, is why you and I are going to work together to prove them wrong.”

“It seems to me,” Arthur began, “that you seem rather keen to spend your time and effort changing the fate of a contract you were saddled with—yes, Dr. Hywater, you needn’t look so surprised when you said it yourself. You, as Mr. Bedlam’s junior, were next in line for this project. I can’t see a woman like yourself jumping at the thought of volunteering your services to an island that technically doesn’t exist.”

“You’re awfully bold to presume, Mr. Cantabella!” Dr. Hywater turned her shark grin on him now. “I admit that I understand your doubts. It’s a shame that most people would see something, well— _ethically_ _wrong_ with what you’ve created. I, however, see the possibilities it presents. A utopia to shape however you like, and with so many willing lab rats clawing at its gates! What’s the current status of your application backlog: four thousand? Five?”

“I’d have to check.”

“It doesn’t matter. Project Labyrinthia has the capacity to be one of the _top_ leading research facilities in Britain. I’m not suggesting that you change your approach entirely, you understand. I merely ask that you expand your horizons. Labyrinthia could easily be home to some of the world’s top psychological studies as well as a center for medical innovation. You needn’t limit yourselves.”

“What exactly did you have in mind, Doctor?” Newton was at the end of his rope; perhaps the doctor couldn’t see, but Arthur knew him too well to doubt. His distaste for the entire affair was written clearly across his face. His genteel upbringing didn’t allow the sort of freedom that came with open discourtesy, but that didn’t mean he approved of anything their new contractor had to say.

“I’m glad you asked, Dr. Belduke.” Again she reached for her briefcase, this time producing a thinly stapled booklet. “The way I see it, Project Labyrinthia is a wellspring of untapped potential. I don’t want to attention away from your main focus, of course—long-term hypnosis is still of some interest to a few key members of the committee. Otherwise the project would have been abandoned ages ago.”

“Then why—”

“Because,” she continued patiently, cutting off Arthur’s query before it had time to form, “there is exactly  _ some  _ interest. That alone won’t be enough to save your contract. As you are now, the odds you have of winning funding against some of the more recent contenders—like Dr. Stahngun’s, for example—are laughable at best.” She handed him the booklet with a flourish.

“Really, you have two options: either you can limp along on empty promises until your chief financial backers retire, or you can follow my advice and be set up for a ten year renewal in as little as six months. The choice is yours.” Arthur looked down at the booklet; the font was small enough that he had to strain his eyes in order to read the title.

“Comprehensive Study on Forced Emotional Attachment in Direct Correlation to Mental State.” He read the wordy title aloud once and to himself twice, trying to puzzle out its meaning. Dr. Hywater needed no prompting, offering the explanation herself. 

“It’s no secret that emotional attachment can be the cause of mental strain in patients. We want to research this in a controlled setting, using otherwise healthy individuals. The research is simple: subjects are forced into emotional bonds they otherwise might not have voluntarily chosen. They are then left to their own devices, monitored, and the data collected for study.” 

“And you want us to perform this experiment in Labyrinthia?”

“Consider it a type of subcontract, if you will. It shouldn’t be hard to arrange, seeing as the majority of your citizens are already subject to long-term hypnosis.”

“Not hard—impossible.” Newton frowned. “The experimental serum used in Project Labyrinthia is a hypnotic agent, yes, but it has only one major function: memory suppression. It can’t change memoires or even create new ones; we can only suppress them, and allow the mind to make its own substitutions where necessary. That is the crux of Labrelum’s research.”

“I’m surprised your research has advanced at all, with that negative attitude.” Dr. Hywater shook her head with a tsk. “If you read the proposal, you will see that we’re not asking Labrelum to  _ change  _ anyone. We only want… misdirection, in a sense.”

“Besides, are you not doing the same in your screening process? I’ve read the reports on how new subjects are assimilated into the town system. You use the hypnosis to directly influence their career choice. Who’s to say you can’t do the same for marriages, or divorces? You might even pit one neighborhood against another in the style of a Shakespearean world; a feud would make an excellent case study.”

“This sounds highly unstructured!” Newton protested. “How do you propose we find a control group? Are we supposed to pull a standardized hypothesis from thin air? What are we do when there’s been no prior—”

“Are you or are you not Head of Research? That is your job, Doctor. I am merely providing you the bare bones of success. How you achieve it is none of my concern—I’m only interested in the resulting data.” Her eyes grew steely. “If you don’t feel that Labrelum can accurately handle this scope of project, then perhaps it’s best that Project Labyrinthia be tabled after all. I personally cannot condone the continued research of a serum that has exactly one use, and an impractical one at that.”

“…I understand.” Newton’s jaw was clenched so tightly that his teeth ought to have cracked under the pressure. Arthur placed the proposal facedown and covered it with both hands, smothering a shiver.

Newton was right in one aspect: what Dr. Hywater was asking couldn’t be done, at least not in the way she intended. The Story’s ink had no effect on either emotional capacity or the ability to make informed decisions. It only suppressed memories and, as an odd side effect, made anyone who ingested it temporarily open to the power of suggestion.  _ Gullibility potion,  _ Newton had often joked in the early days of its development.

To touch the soul was, at the moment, beyond the power of science. But that didn’t mean Labrelum couldn’t find a loophole in the system. The goal itself wasn’t an issue… only the method of achieving it. 

“What if,” Arthur began slowly, pausing only to clear his throat. “What if we were to—to  _ brainstorm  _ a solution to this proposal without involving hypnosis directly?” The skeleton of an idea was beginning to form in the back of his mind; with enough direct thought and planning it might be fashioned into something that could win them more time, if not a complete renewal of Project Labyrinthia’s contract.

“Again: I couldn’t care less  _ how _ you do it… only that it’s done, and has the data I need to prove your case to the committee. Off the record—if you’re at all interested in saving your skins, I would highly suggest that you take this offer. There may not be another.”

It was the finality of her sentence that drove the final nail into the coffin. With their backs against the wall, they would have to make a choice immediately. Arthur looked to Newton, hoping to find something that would help him, give him the confidence that he needed in the moment. But the man’s head was bent, eyes locked on the cold tea sluggishly staining the edges of his cup. It was as if he hadn’t heard her ultimatum at all.

_ Can we do this?  _ As CEO, it was his call. He would have to decide whether or not they could pull themselves up with this offered lifeline. They were in over their heads as it was; if it broke, they would surely drown. But… if they didn’t try, they would be no better off.  _ The answer is not yes or no. It’s that we don’t have a choice. _

They had to make the attempt. Labyrinthia would not—could not—end prematurely. Espella’s life depended on it and, although she had no way of knowing, Eve’s did as well. He would happily go bankrupt for his daughter’s wellbeing, and he knew without asking that Newton would do the same. It was better to swallow their doubts, take the handout, and muscle through whatever was to come. 

“Dr. Hywater… we accept your contract.” 


	3. Chapter II

“We can get through this.” Arthur had been repeating variants of the same phrase for what felt like hours now, but they did little to reassure him. He’d meant to bolster his own confidence with a false equivalent, but positive thinking could only be counted on to bring him so far.

_ Comprehensive Study on Forced Emotional Attachment in Direct Correlation to Mental State _ . The proposal book still lay on the table before him, one corner pinned beneath the saucer of his teacup. Its title alone was enough to bring him an undue amount of stress. He felt as helpless and confused as a schoolchild, trying desperately to solve calculus equations on his fingers. They had been placed before a mountain and given no choice but to scale it—the experiment had to be a success. Labyrinthia’s future was at stake.

“We  _ can _ get through this,” he said yet again, more for Newton’s sake than his own this time. The man had leapt to his feet the moment that Dr. Hywater and Mr. Factor were out of sight; Arthur had lost count of the number of circles he made around the table. It was pointless to try and stop him; Newton’s pacing was a direct result of his racing thoughts, one of the few safe ways he could release the anxiety they caused. He wouldn’t stop until he was either distracted by something else, or had the answer to whatever problem plagued his overactive mind. 

“We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?” He tried to inject some optimism into the statement. “Don’t we always come out on top? If not better? We’ll do it again, you’ll see. We just need a plan of action, something… we’ll think of something.”

Newton gave no notice that he’d even heard, his eyes locked on the floor as he circled the far corner of the table yet again. His long ponytail was thrown over his right shoulder; he tugged at it as he walked, fingers threading through the strands as though he were trying to hang on for dear life.

_ We’ll be here all evening at this rate.  _ Arthur wracked his brain for something, anything that might sidetrack his friend. Normally it would be easy to change the subject; he might have even prompted the alchemist into a lecture on the importance of self-care during illness. But not this evening, and certainly not in the wake of such damning news.  _ Direction is the key here,  _ he realized.  _ Not diversion. _

“Say, Newt: there’s one thing I’d like to ask you about,” he stated. He tried to keep his voice level, as if they were two old friends catching up over coffee. He knew that, even if it didn’t seem like it, Newton was listening; he might be distracted, but he’d always remember whatever was said later in near perfect detail. When they were boys many people, adults and children alike, had been downright cruel to him when they thought he wasn’t listening. They never suspected—or cared—that he would reflect on their insults later.

“Something Dr. Hywater said earlier clearly upset you.” Arthur paused for his friend’s benefit, but Newton offered neither answer nor explanation. “I didn’t understand what the two of you were speaking of, but I didn’t want to mention that in front of her. I know we’ve only met her once, but I’m sure you’ll understand why I’m loathe to show any sort of weakness to that harpy.”

“I wanted to ask you about Mr. Bedlam’s new contract.” This caught Newton’s attention. His blue gaze flitted over Arthur’s chair as he passed, looking without taking proper measure of what he saw. “That, and this Dr. Stahngun bloke. Dr. Hywater said that he’d been given leeway to resume an old, discontinued project.”

“The Allen/Hawks project, wasn’t it? Those names seem so familiar, but I can’t place them for the life of me. You clearly could, though, and you didn’t seem to like what it meant. So.” Arthur leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers. “What’s it all about, then? What is it about this that has you so up in arms?”

“The Institute of Polydimensional Physics.” The words seemed to root Newton to the spot. He paused mid-step, swaying as a shadow crossed his face. “They were a research organization, based in London and specializing in field theory. Experimental physics,” he explained, seeing the confusion evident in Arthur’s expression. “Spacetime symmetry, vector fields, that sort of thing. Some of the theories were—are—profound. Then again, others could only be described as absurd.”

“Like time travel?” Arthur surmised with a smile. “You didn’t seem impressed when Dr. Hywater mentioned it.”

“Yes, well.” Newton’s lips pursed, but that was a good sign. Being annoyed over the past exploits of experimental physicists meant that he wasn’t fretting over the potential loss of his own research. “I read the preliminary report, more out of curiosity than any real interest. Allen and Hawks were virtually unknown in the scientific community at that time. They were recent university graduates, I believe: nothing under their belts, aside from their dissertations.”

“But the Institute hired them anyway?”

“The Institute of Polydimensional Physics, in those days, had made a name for itself by encouraging free thinkers—the sort that other, more reputable organizations wouldn’t look twice at. They wanted to give everyone a chance to prove their theories, no matter how bizarre.”

“Allen and Hawks claimed that they could build a functional time machine. I remember that their main hypothesis was based on the fact that all other theorists before them had used synthetic material as an energy source in their machines. Allen and Hawks insisted that this method of thinking was wrong. Only an organic source could possibly provide the energy needed to surpass the space time barrier.”

“In other words, it piqued interest.”

“Oh, yes. Everyone in the community was divided on it: either they were innovators of the highest order, or they were little better than stick-banging Neanderthals. It caught everyone’s attention… including the Institute’s. They hired both of them on the spot, offering a multi-million dollar contract if they could produce a working machine.” 

“They failed, obviously.”

“No, actually. The theory, surprisingly enough, was sound. They had all the right formulas, and time and time again the data proved that their findings were backed by real science. For a while, everyone thought that these two nobodies might actually succeed. Time travel was going to be a reality.”

“It isn’t, though!” Arthur shook his head incredulously. “Time travel doesn’t exist!”

“No. They failed, but not because they were  _ wrong _ .” Newton sighed. “This was… oh, about ten years ago, perhaps. Everything was going perfectly. The time machine was almost completed, and a select group of theorists and government agents were slated to get their first glimpse of it within days.”

“But something happened.”

“Yes. The team was offered money—a great deal of it—to demonstrate a prototype component of the time machine outside of schedule. It was called a Soolha coil, and it was Dr. Allen’s magnum opus. His entire project had hinged on its creation.”

“What did it do?”

“It creates an artificial wormhole, but it works much in the same way that a black hole does. By creating a massive, stable magnetic field, it can disrupt gravity to the point that space time itself can hypothetically be thinned to create a point of entry. In layman’s terms, it distorts time by the use of magnetic fields. Dr. Allen had published several papers on this theory—hivegap theory, he called it—during his work on the project. The Soolha coil was the result of that research.” 

“I see. If it works, that would be a great invention, indeed.” Arthur rubbed his chin. “But if your expression is anything to go by, Newton… something awful happened.”

“There was a fatal flaw in the system. The official incident report states that neither Allen nor Hawks knew of it before going ahead with the experiment. However… there are rumors.” Newton’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve heard that the flaw was far too obvious to be overlooked, and that Allen wanted to call off the demonstration but was overruled.”

“But if Hawks knew and still—” Newton silenced him with a sharp nod. “No.”

“Even worse, he chose to use a live test subject. She was their lab assistant, an intern from Gressenheller University. I don’t recall her name… Clarice, maybe, or Clara—Claire. Yes, that’s it.”

“What happened?”

“There was an explosion. That poor girl was killed instantly. The laboratory was next door to a block of flats; the shockwave caused them to collapse, burying several others as well. Trapped beneath the rubble, they were…” He took a deep gulp of air. “B-burned alive.”

“Good god.”

“Gressenheller University filed a formal lawsuit, but it was dropped almost immediately. Any others were privately settled out of court.” He smiled bitterly. “You see, Hawks had the money at that point. A great deal of it went towards making sure that the entire incident was given as little media coverage as possible. He had moved onto politics, you see, and didn’t want to ruin his chances for office.”

“Office? But… wait.” The puzzle pieces clicked into place, and he realized just where he’d heard of the Allen/Hawks project. It had been whispered in the corner of a social gala, rumors that he’d discarded immediately as nothing more than malicious gossip about the…. He paled. “It can’t be.”

“Yes. I’m speaking of Prime Minister Bill Hawks.” Newton’s grimace tightened further. “He paid a great sum of money to make sure that no one ever has a reason to talk about the incident. Allen vanished off the face of the earth. He may be hiding in disgrace, or perhaps Hawks wanted to make sure that he could never come forward with the truth.”

“That’s a little sinister, don’t you think?” Newton shook his head.

“Anyone who’s tried to research what happened that day has been threatened, or worse. Several scientists and private investigators have been hospitalized under mysterious circumstances. Others go missing, or suddenly lose interest.” He tugged at his hair, mouth twisting as he thought. “It’s very startling that this Dr. Stahngun has been given rights to the time machine project. There’s no doubt in my mind that the Prime Minister would be more than willing to fund him.”

“Are you saying that Hawks would still get a portion of the profits?” 

“It would be more than that. Hawks would be able to take sole credit. Who would challenge him, now that Allen is gone? With his signature on the original contract, he could very well name himself the creator of time travel. Bill Hawks would become a very,  _ very _ rich man.” 

“I see… and that is the sort of person we must contend with now, in the hopes of saving our own project.” Dread was a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach; Newton clearly felt the same, sinking listlessly into his chair. He covered his face, fingers digging at his temples. 

“What are we going to do, Art?” he asked. His soft voice, muffled by the thick collar of his coat, could barely be heard. “We’ve nothing to go on, no prior statistics. I doubt we could even find a viable control group.” 

“Let’s not lose hope just yet. After all, we still have six months to think of something.” When Newton raised his head, the bags beneath his eyes seemed more prominent than ever. 

“No, Arthur. There’s no possible way to get the results they want in only six months. That’s… that’s impossible.” His eyes locked onto the grey landscape beyond the rain-splattered windows as he took a shuddering breath. “We can spout claims all day long, but without the data to back it we won’t be given a second glance.” 

“No.” Arthur ran a finger along his mustache, watching the embers glow in the grate. “No, I disagree. I think it’s entirely possible. In fact, I’m working on an idea.”

He’d always done his best thinking while under pressure; it was the only way he’d been able to pass his classes and graduate university with acceptable marks. There was a coveted sweet spot, hovering somewhere between concentration and daydreaming; the trick was in letting his mind settle there without going completely idle.

The idea he’d spotted during the meeting was still there, floating in the ether of his thoughts. It waited only for the tide that would, eventually, bring it to him at the shore.  _ Patience, Arthur _ , he chided himself.  _ You never made anything decent by trying to hurry it along. _

“What?” Newton’s voice rang with tired skepticism. “Oh… face the facts, Art: they’re setting us up for failure. Dr. Hywater couldn’t have spelled it out any clearer; they’ve walked us to our grave and now we’ve been given shovels. The odds are more than stacked against us.”

“Aren’t they always?” he murmured, sinking further into the tangled ocean of his thoughts. “I heard her loud and clear… as did you. They don’t care about the methods we use. They only want to see the results of our labors.”

“Stop right there.” Newton slammed his palm flat on the table between them as though he could catch the words in midair and crush them beneath gold plate metal. “You know as well as I do that the ink—”

“It’s not about the ink!” Arthur snapped. “Dr. Hywater is right, Newton. Now’s not the time to be narrow minded. We have to expand our horizons and think laterally for once. No one ever said that we had to be  _ orthodox _ .”

“But—”

“The only way to stay in the game is to be two steps ahead of everyone else. If they expect us to react in a certain way, we’ll just have to surprise them.” He felt the gears in his brain creak to life with a rusty shriek, dust falling from their tarnished surface. He’d not had a good reason to use his mind in ages. Now was the time to plot, and scheming was one thing he’d always excelled at. Even as a boy, when he used to—

_ You’re a wicked child, and you’ll never outgrow it. You can’t expect more from a Cantabella. _

The words, surfacing from the murky waters of years long passed, still cut as deeply as they had the first time he’d heard them. The world around him melted into the background as he fell backwards in time, regressing to a scared, angry boy that tried too hard to be a man.

Most respectable adults had looked down their noses at him, and nothing he’d tried as a child ever changed that. They were unwilling to believe that he’d ever amount to anything more than a common thief—or worse, a deadbeat. It was his born shame, the result of carrying the surname that belonged to his mother.

At times he wanted to lash out in his frustration and grief, overwhelmed by something he’d been unable to prevent.  _ I never asked to be born! It’s not my fault that I’m the town bastard!  _ But raging against the world didn’t help; if anything, it only made them feel justified in their opinion of him. So he kept the feelings inside, letting the pressure build for months on end until he exploded.

_ I hate this stupid name and I hate you! Just admit that everyone’s right—you didn’t want me!  _ He could still see his mother standing before him, her shoulders thrown back and chin high in the wake of his fury. Years of worry had worked premature creases into her tall forehead, but her thick jaw was set with the same obstinance that her granddaughter would one day possess.

At the time she’d been his target, the one who’d made his life a living hell just by being his mother. It was her fault, he surmised, that he didn’t know his father’s name, or where he lived, or even what he did for a living. She’d been washing the supper dishes, he remembered; the threadbare dishtowel had fallen from her apron as she whirled on him, hands on her hips.

_ I don’t give a hoot where he is, and neither should you. He ‘ent worth wasting time over, and besides: if you want to see him, just look in the mirror. You’ll get a good enough idea.  _ That was the straw that broke the camel’s back; he was on his feet before he could stop himself, trying his best to tower over her as he let loose a tirade of pent-up feelings.

She’d stood there and taken it without a word, arms crossed and mouth pursed. It wasn’t until he stopped for breath that she moved, striking faster than a cobra. She’d slapped him once for impudence and another for losing his temper, two sharp smacks that had stopped him in his tracks. Then, in her usual no-nonsense manner, she’d brought him to his knees. 

_ Like it or not, you’re a Cantabella and you’ll always be one. You can’t escape it, so there’s no use crying over it like a spoiled brat. _

Her work-roughened hands had smoothed away the sweaty hair from his forehead, taking with it the rest of his anger and leaving only the guilt that always followed one of his misguided rages. He’d been angry at the town, not her, but that didn’t mean anything. Even if they didn’t mean to hurt one another, they weren’t able to help it; it was just the Cantabella way.

_ I didn’t mean it, Mama. Honest I didn’t.  _ His apologetic embrace had been less hugging and more clinging, desperately hoping that she wouldn’t impatiently push him aside. Physical affection was something foreign when it came from her, but for once he didn’t protest her halfhearted caress.

_ They can say what they want, but it ‘ent wickedness,  _ she’d told him sternly in her thick Labyrinthian drawl.  _ Crafty, that’s what you are. Craftiness runs in our blood. It’s how we survive. _

She was all dishwater and scratchy cotton and cooking grease, but together it made something comforting enough that he wished he could wrap himself in and never escape from.  _ You’ll be this way the rest of your life, Artie,  _ she’d sighed, with an air of finality.  _ You’ll just have to use it to your advantage, make something of yourself using what you got. _

_ I will. You’ll see. _

_ And don’t you go letting them say that you ‘ent wanted.  _ Her hand had been warm on the crown of his head, holding his cheek gently against her shoulder.  _ You might have been an accident, but you’re still the best damn thing I ever wrung out of that man. _

_ Mama.  _ It had taken him many years and a child of his own to realize just what his mother had gone through. There were many things he’d silently blamed her for over the years—more than he felt comfortable saying. There was no denying that she’d been a hard woman, stubborn and relentless, with less patience than any good parent ought to have. She pushed him around when he was too slow and wasn’t above fist fighting with the mercantile customers, no matter how embarrassing it was for him to have to beg the beadle for her release.

But she had also kept him, choosing to raise an illegitimate son even though she’d never wanted to be a mother. The town saw her as an unrepentant whore, but she was enough of an entrepreneur that their shop had had its favored regulars. She’d been a frugal spender, working long hours to make sure that he was fed and clothed; she had also wrenched enough ears that he was assured of a good education long before he was of school-age. And, while callous at times, she’d clearly loved him in her own way.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?” He shook his head, resurfacing with a wince. He’d not meant to fall into reminiscence, but he couldn’t help it when being reminded of his… less  _ admirable _ traits. He wondered, briefly, what Mama might have said about the situation he was now in. She’d died several years before the Great Fire, brought down in her prime by the same illness he now grappled with. He could hear her in the back of his mind, brisk as always and without a hint of sympathy.

_ Fallen into another hole, have we? _

_ Yes, Mama. _

_ Only one thing left to do then, isn’t there? Now’s the time to claw your way back out.  _

“Are you alright?” Newton’s brow furrowed. “You look a little pale. Are you growing tired? In any pain?”

“No! No, I’m fine.” The discomfort he felt wasn’t from his illness, for once. It was an old ache, the yearning that comes with an unattainable wish. He wanted his mother, but for that he’d have to wait until the disease claimed him as well. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you planned to share your idea.” Newton didn’t seem convinced, but neither did he press the issue. “Any suggestions would be welcome, you know.”

“It’s easy, really.” He smiled. “After all, everything that I write in the Story comes true.”

“In theory, perhaps!” Newton sputtered. “But that’s nothing more than misdirection and—and glorified parlor tricks. Pardon my French, but you can’t bullshit an intimate connection with someone!”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean,  _ why not _ ?!” Newton’s eyes were so wide that he feared they might pop out of his head at any moment. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Arthur held up a hand and waited for him to fall silent.

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Bare basics, Newt. Think about it from a laboratory standpoint. If you were going to go about this experiment, how would you make it easier for yourself?”

“Well…” Newton said slowly, tongue working in his cheek, “I’d first downsize the initial test group. No neighborhood disputes,” he spat, nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought. “Hypothetically speaking, we need only two people for an experiment such as this.”

“Two people. Perfect. Now, we need to do two things: force them together, and encourage an emotional bond. What’s the simplest way to do that?” When Newton didn’t answer immediately, he added, “It’s a staple of history. Think about it.”

“Oh, Arthur,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “No. Absolutely  _ no  _ marriages.”

“Even you have to agree that it’s the easiest option. It’s quick, simple, and needs as little preparation as possible. All we have to do is decree that it’s my Will, and they won’t refuse. They couldn’t! Anything written in the Story  _ has  _ to come true; to think otherwise is to blaspheme against the Storyteller.”

“But think about the legal implications! We are setting ourselves up for a lawsuit if we start marrying people off without their willing consent. I don’t need Ben here to tell you that the risk isn’t worth it.”

“There won’t be legal implications.” The gears were now churning along steadily. “Not if they’re married Labyrinthian style. Remember, we protected ourselves against that when we added the familial clause.” 

Any potential candidate for Project Labyrinthia was subject to extensive background screening. Those found with immediate family were highly encouraged to remain with their spouse and children by whatever means necessary. For some, this meant signing their family up to be brought to Labyrinthia as well. Others, unhappy enough to want a clean break, filed for divorce and left Labrelum’s legal team to sort out the rest.

Still, some people were much better at hiding their pasts than others. To protect Labrelum against any accusations of polygamy, all marriages made within the city borders were not legally recognized by the UK government. All situations of marriage were handled on a case by case basis at the culmination of the contract.

For childless marriages, it was a simple matter of adjusting their contracts’ durations to meet a minimum requirement of years served. Upon completion of their term, the participants were given the option to marry legally, or to go their separate ways. Most opted for the latter, having had their memories of marriage suppressed with the rest of their time in Labyrinthia. Still, the option remained for legal reasons.

Childbearing marriages, on the other hand, had a special clause in the main contract. Upon the successful birth of their first child, both parents had their contracts changed to “semi-permanent status”. They were required to remain in the city throughout the project’s duration; the children were registered as UK citizens, and the marriage would be given first priority when it came time to jump through the legal hoops. 

“Here’s what I think we should do.” Arthur struggled to his feet; he felt the need to pace, wanting to move his body in cadence with the thoughts racing through his mind. Times like this made it more frustrating that the smallest of movement could become taxing thanks to his disease.  _ If only I were healthier!  _

“The marriage must be arranged by the Storyteller, announced at the next Parade. That will be….” He mentally calculated the weeks since the last chapter of the Story had been released. “Exactly one week from tomorrow,” he concluded. “Now, we will have to choose two citizens of good standing, well known within their community. We want to generate public interest.”

“Public interest?” Newton shook his head. “Arthur, I thought we just decided to keep the experiment small!”

“And it will be!” Arthur assured him. “We only have to concern ourselves with two people: the happy couple. But those two people will need to become the center of attention. It will be an easy thing to plant Labrelum researchers in various neighborhoods around the city; we’ll glean more than our fair share of data from town gossip alone. We can’t isolate them on their own little island—yet—and their union won’t dissolve other preexisting relationships. The more eyes we have to watch friends and family, the better.”

“I disagree,” Newton countered. “Subjects with large families only add risk factor. We need to be conscious about conflicts of interest. I say that one, if not both, of the subjects should be orphaned. There are plenty of participants who entered Project Labyrinthia alone; I say we choose from among them.”

“You make a good point,” Arthur conceded. “With any luck, we can get enough to provide extra datasets on the benefits of family units after periods of social isolation.”

“Still, there’s another thing to consider.” Newton traced patterns on the table surface with one finger, frowning in thought. “When the experiment is over… what then? Will the subjects be allowed to remain in a state of marriage? Even more so: how do we decide when the experiment has reached a natural conclusion? Is there a capping point for the data we collect?” 

“Yes, we’ll need a solid frame of reference for—I’ve got it!” He slapped his fist into his hand, turning on his heel to face the table. “The witches!”

“Witches?”

“I  _ told  _ you that we had everything we needed already!” Properly excited now, his words tripped over each other as they stumbled past his lips. He hurried to the table, all but looming over Newton’s puzzled expression—not an easy feat, considering how tall the man was even when seated.

“It goes like this: the marriage is announced at the Parade to great fanfare. A large ceremony is performed and the couple is left to their own devices for a honeymoon period. We make observations, gather the menial data, and then… then the plot twist.” He smiled broadly; he’d always been good at narratives, reeling in his audience with written tales of adventure and woe. What was this, if not another chapter in his extensive Story?

“After so many months—leaving us enough time to compile and format the data, naturally—the formerly complicit housewife is discovered to be harboring a dark secret. She is, in fact, the very thing that all Labyrinthians fear. She is… a witch!”

“Arthur—”

“Her husband must now face interrogation in the Witch’s Court. He will be ruthlessly questioned about every interaction, every idle word said in passing, anything that may have been a cleverly disguised spell. His actions will be scrutinized, studied and turned against him in the most vicious of psychological warfare. He will be labeled as a sympathizer, forced to prove his own innocence. And all the while he is unwittingly damning his bride to the role of fiend, trickster, a malicious agent of Bezella in the flesh.”

“I understand, but—”

“Following the questioning, he must watch the trial. If he is lucky, she will not ask for a defense. Perhaps she will try to defend her own innocence. He will be forced to bear witness as the Inquisition tears her apart limb from limb, with the usual cunning that we have come to expect from the Order’s best. And then he will see her escorted up the stairs, locked into the iron maiden, and committed to the flames. His wife will burn, all in the name of safety for his city.”

“Should that not be mentally taxing enough, he will then face the trial’s aftermath. It will be a good time for us to study the townspeople’s reactions. Will they openly sympathize with him? Claim that he is but a man bewitched, tricked by the cruelest of monsters? Or will they insist that he is in league with the witches, spying on them for his mistress?”

“And what of the man himself; will he accept his fate as nothing more than the caprice of a smiling god? Will he curse me in my tower, or will he speak the ultimate heresy by proclaiming his dead wife’s innocence? I tell you, Newton: if this is not a stressful emotional connection between two people, then I don’t know what is.”

“I don’t like it,” Newton proclaimed. “It seems unnecessarily cruel, especially to the poor groom. But,” he added quickly, seeing Arthur’s quirked brow, “I understand that we don’t have many other options at the moment.”

“Ex-ac-tly,” Arthur punctuated each syllable with a poignant nod. “Pre-cise-ly. We don’t have a  _ choice _ . No matter how we feel about it personally, we must take what we’re given and make the most of it. Besides, it’s only for six months.”

“Yes, but the emotional impact… that’s what I’m worried about.”

“I see no reason for there to be any lasting impact. They’re already under the ink’s influence as it is; we have the power to offer them a… a rewind, if you will. Reintroducing the bride to society will be as easy as with any other Shade. We merely suppress the memories at another Parade, and no one will have to remember that they were ever married at all.”

“And when their contracts are over? When they remember exactly what it is we’ve done?”

“Oh, posh.” Arthur waved a hand dismissively. “They signed the contract, Newton; so long as they live within the city walls, we have the permission we need to experiment on them however we see fit. And, if they  _ are  _ upset about it— so what? A little cash settlement and they’ll be right as rain.”

“I don’t know.”

“Newton, Newton—look at me.” Arthur sat across from him, hands laced on the table as he leaned forward. “Trust me: it’s the perfect plan. We just need to take it one step at a time. Think about the data we can gather from the announcement alone, and not just from the happy couple! Friends, family, colleagues—even old lovers, if we’re lucky! It’s bound to be a public affair, with the Storyteller so adamant about the union.”

“It just seems so….” Newton sighed, rubbing his temples with both hands. “Uncouth.”

“It’s research, Newt, plain and simple. Six months and done. Just keep reminding yourself of that. It’s a short goal, done only as a favor to our contractor. Nothing to invest any emotion in. We only have to go as in-depth as we feel comfortable with.”

“I….” Newton let out a short huff. “Alright. But only six months,” he warned, “and not a day over.”

“Of co—”

“ _ Promise _ , Arthur. Promise me that you won’t want to drag this out any longer than it needs to be.”

“I give you my word.”

“Shake on it, then.” He stuck his good arm out over the table expectantly. Arthur took his hand and gave it a firm shake, squeezing once amicably before letting go. “Fine, then. If we’re really going through with this, I want to know just who we’re planning to marry off before I leave.” 

“The happy bride and groom! Let’s see… they’ll both have to be townspeople, for one. I doubt Dr. Hywater would look favorably on our wasting valuable resources by hiring actors for an extended duration; nor would the committee, for that matter.” He labored to his feet again, walking back to the window while Newton continued. 

“If you want someone noticeable, I’d suggest looking at the families on North Parade Avenue. There’s bound to be someone of marriable age there. A nobleman’s son would be best, I think. A daughter will be expected to better her situation, if she can. By choosing the bride first, we run the risk of being unable to find a groom of higher class.”

“That’s true.” Arthur gazed absently at a flurry of activity in the yard several stories below him. A white horse galloped over the drawbridge, skidding to a stop in the mud before the half-open stable doors. A gangly stable lad stumbled over the miry ground, helping the rider to dismount before ushering the horse into the torchlit warmth.

The knight watched over his shoulder, already heading for the officer’s barracks. The feathered plume of his helmet sagged in the rain, limp against his spine. However, the storm did little to mar the stateliness of the man’s shining armor, and his emerald cloak fluttered in the wind as he made his way towards shelter.

“Say, Newt: what if instead of having to face the Inquisition, our groom  _ was  _ the Inquisition?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“I mean that we could choose Sir Barnham to be our groom. After all, he’s nearly everything we could ask for: an upstanding, ambitious man, young but with a good head on his shoulders. He’s esteemed by his peers and trusted by the townsfolk. As Leader of the Order and an inquisitor of the Witch’s Court, he’s one of the highest ranking knights in Labyrinthia. That ought to earn him a small title, if nothing else.” 

“I suppose,” Newton agreed slowly. “And he’s not bad-looking, either. I can’t think of a single young lady who wouldn’t be very happy with him as her husband.”

“Moreover, it’s bound to be the scandal of the century when the truth is revealed! The inquisitor’s wife is the very thing he’s sworn to protect the town from; Sir Barnham, bewitched by his own bride! He’ll face degradation unlike anything he’s ever known.”

“Plus, there’s the matter of his workload to consider.” Arthur’s chuckles faded into solemn contemplation. “He’s stretched thin as it is, being both the Leader of the Order and an inquisitor. Adding marriage onto that? The man will be lucky if he can sleep an hour straight.”

“I believe that Sir Barnham has a pageboy as well,” Newton added. “I remember treating the lad for a persistent cough last spring. He can’t allow marriage to take precedence over his duty towards the boy. There’s also the winter training of new recruits to the garrison; I believe I see more injuries in those two weeks than the rest of the season. He will be a very busy man.”

“It will be quite a strain on the poor boy, but that’s precisely what we’re hoping to see. Will he crack under the pressure, or rise to overcome it? I can’t wait to find out.”

“But Arthur, there’s something else that’s bothering me.” Newton crossed his arms. “How can we be sure that the witch will give herself away? Are we certain that she will even perform magic within our six month timeframe?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Many witches in Labyrinthia are, quite naturally, afraid of being found out. They would rather forgo the use of magic in order to maintain what we might call a ‘normal’ lifestyle. Eve has told me before that many witches choose to hide their Talea Magica or lock it away, eager to pretend that it doesn’t exist. They want to be nothing more than the average townswoman; their very safety depends on it.”

“You make a good point.”

“Even my Jean knew, as a young child, that being a witch was a crime. It was only when her family’s livelihood was at stake that she dared to use magic. Before that, her scepter was hidden away where no one would find it.” Newton shook his head. “Witches are capable of performing magic, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they do so.”

“Yes, I see.” Arthur frowned. This was certainly a wrench in the plan.  _ Crafty, think crafty. _

“Witches either perform magic, or they don’t. You might say that the odds are fifty-fifty, with a good chance that they’ll turn in our favor, but I would disagree. Sir Barnham has been well-trained in the art of witch hunting. Any woman stupid enough to do magic in the same house as an inquisitor of the Witch’s Court is asking to be executed, in my opinion.”

“What should we do, then?”

“What can be done? You stated yourself earlier that it would be imprudent to hire actors; I agree, seeing as we’re in a battle for funding as it is. But, on the other hand, we don’t have witches at our beck and call; we can’t command someone to do magic on a whim.” Arthur was silent a moment, lost in thought as he watched the rain slide, drop by drop, down the clear glass. 

“Yes, we can.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re wrong, my friend. We can command someone to perform magic on a whim, anytime we please. There’s one person in Labyrinthia that we can be sure will do as she is told. She’s not let us down yet.”

“But who could possibly… no.” Newton faltered, his wan cheeks growing even paler as the words took hold. “No, Arthur! I won’t allow it!” He rose to his feet without warning, both hands on the table as a rare anger crossed his face. “I expressly  _ forbid  _ it!”

“Why not?”

“This has nothing to do with her!” The sharp angles of his cheekbones were even harsher in the light, causing him to look more threatening than usual. “You will not bring Eve into this!”

“What choice do we have?!” Arthur shouted back, raising his voice as he crossed the room. “This has to work, Newton.  _ There is no other way _ . You know as well as I do what will happen when Project Labyrinthia comes to an end.” He stopped on the opposite side of the table, glaring down the alchemist with all the sternness he could muster. “Think about Eve.”

“I am! I always am, and always will!” Newton breathed heavily, fighting to keep his tone under control. “I am her father, for god’s sake, and so long as I am living I will—”

“What _will_ you do, Newton, when there are no other options left? Are you prepared to tell her the truth?” The words, harsh as they were, cut through the simmering tension in the room. Newton’s jaw snapped closed with an audible clack of teeth. “You know as well as I do that there are secrets which must be kept. For both our daughters’ sakes.”

“Don’t try and reason with me, Arthur. We—Eve has already sacrificed so much for Espella, for Labyrinthia. She’s had to grow up so quickly…. I admit that I am to blame for that; had I been a better father, I might have been able to salvage what was left of her childhood. But she should not be punished for our mistakes, Arthur. It isn’t fair to ask this of her as well.”

“Who else can we turn to?” Arthur replied sensibly. “Even if we could hire an actor, it only makes sense to use Eve’s power and connection to our advantage. She is the High Inquisitor, the highest ranking citizen in Labyrinthia. No one would dare question her without good reason.” As he spoke, he could practically  _ feel  _ the pieces falling exactly where they needed them to be. The puzzle’s outline was finished; now they need only fill in the details.

“It will make sense to the townsfolk that the Storyteller reward his High Inquisitor’s faithful service by ensuring her continued happiness. No one will blink twice at Sir Barnham being chosen as her husband, either. It is a befitting ending to his Story as well; he is, I daresay, the only man in Labyrinthia high enough in rank to stand as her equal.”

“But—But—”

“Eve doesn’t need to  _ love  _ him, after all; it’s nothing more than a temporary living situation. She can treat it like standard overtime. They work well together—they’ve more than proved it at this point—and once we tie up the loose ends in six months’ time Sir Barnham will have forgotten that they were ever more than coworkers. The town can be properly scandalized, we’ll have a nice little Parade, and everything will go back to the way it was before.”

“I don’t like it!”

“What’s not to like? All the data we need, and no lasting consequences for anyone. If only all heartbreaks were that easy to overcome.” Newton shook his head vehemently, but his shoulders were beginning to slouch—a telling sign that he was crumbling.

“I—no, I’m standing my ground,” he stated, more to himself than to Arthur. “I can’t possibly ask her to go through with this.  _ You  _ can’t make her go through with it. She won’t say yes, you know; I know my girl. If you order her to marry him, she’s going to fight you tooth and nail.”

“Nonsense. Eve will do what she knows to be best for Labyrinthia,” Arthur replied calmly. “She knows her role in the Story, as do you. Once we explain the plan to her, she’ll see our side of things.”

“Your side of things, Arthur. Not mine.”

“I know that you’re concerned, Newton. I am, too. It’s a large job for one girl, but she’ll have you there to help her. I trust the both of you with my life, and that of my child. Eve  _ will  _ see reason… I know that deep down, you see it too.”

“I don’t  _ like  _ it,” Newton repeated heatedly. “Choose Sir Barnham if you must. But there is no reason to concern Eve with our troubling situation. She has enough on her plate as it is; please, leave her out of it.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I….”

“At the end of the day I am the CEO of this company, and Eve is my employee. I have decided that she will undertake this post, not only for the sake of our company, but for Project Labyrinthia as well. She is a crucial part of this plan, and not one I’m willing to part with.” 

“Alright. Fine.” Newton scowled, tongue working in his cheek. “You may  _ ask  _ Eve if she will assist you by agreeing to go through with this… this farce of an experiment. But if she refuses, you may not harass or threaten her in any way—you are a CEO, after all,” he stated bitterly. “It must be her choice, and a freely made one. No promises, no rewards, no gimmicks. I only want to hear of her honest answer.”

“I understand. If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can be present when I explain the project to her. That way you can stop me if you feel I’ve stepped out of line.” His own words weren’t without heat, but Newton didn’t so much as flinch. “But mark my words: she won’t refuse.” 


	4. Chapter III

“Rise and shine, Miss Eve.”

_ Oh, please let it not be morning yet.  _ Eve stifled a groan, curling onto her side and burrowing deeper into her warm quilts. The seasonably cool air permeated the thick hangings around her bed, chilly on her bared arms; she wanted nothing more than to dig her way beneath the muslin bed sheets and hide there until spring.

Lying still with her eyes firmly shut, she kept her breathing even and listened to the sounds of the morning. Hannah, her lady’s maid, stoked the fire to life in a series of abrupt movements; it sounded at times like she might be forcing the flames higher instead of coaxing them. The curtains sighed as they were opened, metal loops running quietly along the iron rods. Then, without warning, the hangings were thrown back to let in the light on its lone occupant.

Her lids seared scarlet, bright stars popping in a glow far too radiant to be firelight. Cracking one eye warily, she saw that sunlight streamed cheerily through the exposed window panes. The weather had been gray and dreary for three days straight, but her heart warmed to the sight of a blue sky beyond the glass.

“I know you’re awake,” Hannah accused, passing the bed and giving the hangings a final shake. “You ‘ent snoring anymore, miss.” Eve smothered a smile against her quilt, stretching lazily before giving up the act. There’d be no chance of sleeping in today, even if it was officially counted as a day off.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” She threw back the bedclothes, shivering when the chilly morning air found her bare calves. Quickly, she stood and shook the nightgown back over her legs. “I don’t snore.”

“I don’t know how you’d know, being as you’re asleep when it happens,” Hannah replied sensibly. “Now hurry up and get into your gown. You’ll catch a chill and get pneumonia at this rate.” She held up Eve’s warmest dressing gown, ushering her into it as though she were fifty years older than her mistress, not five. “Lord knows it wouldn’t matter,” she complained, cinching the sash about Eve’s waist before dusting her hands on her apron. “You’d climb out of your own coffin and set off a’ working, if you had the notion to.”

“And a good morning to you too, Hannah.” Eve sat at her private table, stretching her feet towards the hearth with a comfortable sigh. Hannah busied herself with the breakfast dishes, silverware clattering as it was laid with brisk efficiency. 

“Good morning, you call it?” she grumbled, all but yanking the cloche from the platter to reveal Eve’s breakfast. This morning’s fare was a classic French-inspired breakfast, light on the stomach and yet delicious. It was one of her favorites: a day-old croissant, buttered and ready to dip in a cup of her favorite tea. For an added bonus Cook had even thrown in a  _ petit pain au chocolat _ , drizzled in bittersweet dark chocolate and arranged on a plate dusted with powdered sugar.

The kitchen staff knew that she had a sweet tooth, and delighted in indulging it whenever they could. The housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons, was continuously butting heads with Cook over the abundance of rich—and often foreign—treats that kept finding their way onto the daily menus. Her efforts were usually in vain; Eve could never bring herself to refuse even the simplest of sugary concoctions.

“Not a good morning?” Eve asked, mouth watering as she looked over her breakfast. Hannah poured her tea, brushing one strand of honey-brown bangs back into the thick rope of her hair.

“Good or no, it’s not been a peaceful one, has it?” she sniffed. “Already there’s been three couriers busting down the door, demanding that the lady of the house be seen. Bunch of self-minded pillocks, if you ask me—I’m glad that I don’t have to deal with them, or I’d tell them exactly where they could shove them letter bags. They ought to be ashamed, waking good folk up at all hours.”

“That  _ is _ their job, Hannah.” 

“Hmph. Some job.” She was curt, snappish and hardly befitting a lady’s maid, but Eve didn’t mind in the slightest. She’d known the woman her entire life; she was the housekeeper’s youngest daughter, one of the three original Belduke servants to survive the Great Fire.

Barely thirteen at the time, she’d had little time to grieve the loss of her father and siblings. Her new task, appointed to her by Lord Belduke himself, had been to watch over the “young miss”. Hannah had been a kitchen girl before the Fire; with no one to teach her the art of being a lady’s maid, she’d been forced to make it up as she went along.

A heavy country accent and its accompanying manners were merely part of the package deal, though she could be cajoled into acting well-bred around posh company. Her tone might have rubbed many stately ladies the wrong way, but Eve welcomed it; when the rest of the world bowed and simpered, it was a pleasant change to be scolded sometimes.

“Who wants me?” Eve asked, muffling a yawn behind her hand. The tea was fragrant this morning, sliding smoothly down her throat to warm her from within. She hummed her satisfaction, looking drowsily at the missives stacked in a neat pile beside her plate. 

“Now how am I to know that?” Hannah tsked. “You think I make it my business to read your mail?”

“I thought you might recognize the handwriting, at least.” Eve smirked. “Aren’t servants supposed to be gossipy?”

“The lowborn ones, maybe.” Hannah smiled her crooked grin, brown eyes twinkling as she made the bed. “But not your sort, miss. All I know is that they was brought ‘round house early this morning, ‘n all three at different times, too. Woke the poor doorman out of a dead sleep, they did.”

The house Hannah meant was not the manor, of course. The couriers—all townspeople, in fact—had no clue that Eve’s manor existed. It was a stately house, built by her great-great-grandfather when the Belduke family first arrived on the island. It had housed five generations, including herself, and now served a dual purpose; her home was also a factory for producing and storing the Story’s potent ink. 

Belduke Manor was where Eve lived and spent the majority of her time when not working. But it was also imperative that she owned a house in town as well. As far as any Labyrinthian was concerned, the Lady Darklaw could be found at her comfortable high end townhouse on North Parade Avenue. 

A small convoy of Shades resided there semi-permanently; they pretended to be the High Inquisitor's servants, red herrings for anyone who showed up on her doorstep. Any letters for Darklaw went there first, and were forwarded to the manor by whichever Shade happened to be heading in that direction. 

The topmost letter caught her eye immediately; she recognized Arthur’s slanted handwriting on the outside of the creamy envelope. Wiping her hands on the napkin in her lap, she reached for it with a puzzled frown. The Storyteller knew that she had the day off from her inquisitor’s duties; he was the one who approved it in the first place. Why would he be sending a message now?

“What on earth could he want this early?” He was scheduled to fly back to London tomorrow; could he not handle Labyrinthia on his own for one day in the meantime? Taking her unused butter knife, she quickly broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting, while cramped, was neat and legible. It didn’t seem to be written in a hurry; she could assume that there wasn’t an emergency. Squinting, she bent over the paper and read.

_ Eve, _

_ Forgive me for this impromptu note, but there is a matter of some urgency that I would like to discuss with you. I would not have called on you during your day off, but this involves the conference that your father and I held with the BEIS contractor two days ago. I will fill you in fully once you arrive. Please be at the Audience Room by ten o’ clock so that we may have ample time to go over the finer details. _

_ Do not delay. Time is of the essence. _

_ -Arthur C. _

Eve read the summons twice, eyes slowly taking in every word as her tea cooled. She’d known about the conference earlier that week, although an invitation hadn’t been offered to her. It had annoyed her at the time; she wasn’t afraid to admit it. But now, seeing that her father had been in attendance, she was glad that she hadn’t been there. It would have been torture to sit in the same room, at the same table, forced to silently endure that absolutely  _ infuriating  _ pout.  _ The way he acts is so pathetic; it’s like he thinks that he’s the victim here, when it’s so obviously clear that— _

The angry mouthful of tea she tried to gulp nearly scalded her tongue. Apparently it hadn’t cooled as much as she’d thought; still, it was enough to clear her head.  _ He  _ wasn’t worth getting needlessly upset over. One maddening old geezer per day was more than enough; she had to start limiting herself, for her sanity’s sake if nothing else. 

Eve was more irritated that her plans for the day were ruined. She’d specifically taken time off for this exact reason! Her plan had been to stay as far away from the city gate as possible; with witch crimes on the rise, her duties as the Great Witch had fallen to the wayside. Today was meant to be the day that she attended to them properly instead of being too distracted by whatever was happening within the city borders. 

As vexing as it was that she couldn’t use her day off to rest, it couldn’t be helped, either. Mrs. Simmons was relying on her to look over the house budget; the accounts wouldn’t wait forever, not when the staff expected to be paid on time. It was also time for a routine inspection of the Shade village; as their leader, she needed to ensure that they were living as comfortably as possible in the Wood. 

And then there were the other, more miscellaneous tasks that she couldn’t seem to find the time for. The bridge spanning the river was in desperate need of repair, and looked ready to fall apart at the seams. The gardener, Mr. Willoughby, had offered to do the handiwork himself; however, he couldn’t begin until they’d conferred on how best to go about fixing it. She also had to gather up a stack of notarized papers and find a way to send them to  _ him _ , seeing as they required the acting lord’s signature. 

There weren’t enough hours in the day to handle everything alone, especially not when she also had the High Inquisitor Darklaw’s shoes to fill. No matter where she chose to focus her energy, someone else ended up affected by her decision. If she neglected her responsibilities at the Courthouse, Sir Barnham was left to handle the brunt of inquisitorial work alone. This was unfair to him; he had his own duties at the garrison to worry about. On the other hand, slacking at the manor meant that servants were left idling and the Shades could not effectively perform their assigned tasks.

It was a lose/lose situation no matter which way she turned; the longer it dragged on, the deeper she was buried beneath unsolved problems and mounting requests. Her workload was too much for one woman to handle alone, and yet she was somehow meant to do the jobs of three at once.  _ It’s not fair!  _ She thought indignantly.  _ It’s just not fair.  _

It wasn’t, but that sort of thinking wouldn’t get anything done any faster. Eve took a vicious bite out of the croissant, chewing as she tossed the letter aside with a huff. There was nothing to be done about it now; she had to obey the summons and show up when she was expected. Arthur wasn’t in the habit of requesting her presence; he demanded it, and she’d be subject to an earful if she didn’t come. 

Besides, she was curious about what they’d spoken about during the conference. She highly doubted that she could have participated in the discussions—especially with  _ him  _ there—but it would have been enough to stand in the shadows, soaking up the conversation like a sponge. She yearned for the change to study those types of interactions, to learn by osmosis so that when the time came she too could properly negotiate with the big dogs in Parliament. 

“Hannah?” 

“Yes?” Eve winced apologetically. 

“You might as well brush my uniform; it seems as though I’ll be going to town today after all.” 

“Oh, bother!” Hannah sounded nearly as exasperated as she felt. “And here I was, hoping that I’d finally have a day to put that loose button to rights.” 

“I thought that too, but I’ve been summoned by the Storyteller. I have to answer.” 

“Ah, well. Ain’t that just the way?” She looked her over with an appraising eye, frowning at what she saw. “You look like you’ve a rat’s nest on your head. If I’m to wrangle that into any proper shape, you’ll be wanting a wash.” Eve glanced at the quiet clock on the mantel. 

“I have time, so I might as well. I think that I’d like a bath today, please.” 

“I’ll put in the word straightaway.” She bustled from the room in a sweep of pale blue skirts, the ribbon on her plait swinging like a pendulum at her hips. Eve could hear her barking orders at a servant girl in the hall; the resulting scramble of heels suggested that the poor thing all but ran to do her bidding. 

Eve picked up the second missive, but it wasn’t nearly as important as the first. It was a follow up on a crime report that she’d asked for nearly two weeks prior. She made a mental note to mention the lapse in punctuality to Sir Barnham. He was usually the one to issue reprimands to members of the garrison… or at least relay them to the squadron leaders. 

The last was a formal message from the man himself. 

_ Lady Darklaw,  _

_ This is a courtesy reminder that I will be out of the office for the week-end. I have received a good faith report concerning several underage squires. Apparently, these future knights of the Order see fit to loiter around establishments of unsavory repute. As such, I have decided to personally oversee the completion of their… remedial training. If it pleases you, leave any work for me on my desk and I will attend to it upon my return next week.  _

_ See you on Monday.  _

_ -Sir Z. Barnham  _

That was a bother as well, but nothing unexpected. It wasn’t at all surprising to her that he would deviate from his busy schedule to scare the daylights out of a few lads—for that’s exactly what he intended to do, no matter how politely it was worded. The garrison’s behavior in public reflected on his leadership, and he was ever conscious of the fact. Eve didn’t mind his rigorous standards; they mirrored her own in many ways. It was reassuring to know that someone cared about Labyrinthia’s image almost as much as she did.

Eve set aside the letters, purposely ignoring them to finish off her breakfast. Two of them could be delayed, and the third wouldn’t require any answer other than her appearance at the appointed time. She was folding her napkin neatly on the tray when Hannah, ever punctual to her lady’s time, stuck her head through the door.

“Bath’s ready when you are, Miss,” she announced.

“Thank you; I’m ready now.”

The master bathroom was thick with steam, warm and sticky against her bare skin as she disrobed. Like many of the other rooms in the house it had been built to the style of the time, outfitted with modern conveniences only where necessary. The stone tiles were original, as was the fresco painting the alcove that housed her bathtub. The large mirror hanging over the central washbasin had been designed by her late grandmother; its wrought-iron spikes twisted to form the Belduke crest at the peak of its arch.

One modern innovation that had been insisted upon was indoor plumbing—a luxury that Labyrinthian citizens did without in the name of historical accuracy. When privacy was in question, most townsfolk relied on tried and true ancient methods; cleanliness was a basin, a washcloth, and enough light to see by. This ritual kept them suitably clean, and was often performed nightly. 

Others preferred copper tubs, if they could afford them. Of course, they could also afford the servants needed to carry tubs of water to and from the well. The garrison employed a simplistic outdoor shower system, pouring buckets of water over their heads as they shivered behind opaque curtains behind the barracks. And no one, no matter their class, missed the opportunity to combine a summer bath and a swim. 

Labyrinthia was in possession of a lone bathhouse, situated on the southern banks of the river that flowed near the Square. Eve had never publicly visited—High Inquisitor Darklaw was not a woman to bathe with the lower castes—but her cloak of invisibility allowed her the convenience of being able to sate her curiosity with the occasional peek.

Many middle-class Labyrinthians frequented the bathhouse, at least once a week if not more. It was a natural watering hole of sorts, a place to swap stories and indulge in the latest gossip. Men and women sat together in the large wooden barrels, talking and laughing loudly while attendants added hot stones to the cooling bath. There was all manner of herbs and flowers to perfume the water; patrons could even buy food and ale to indulge in while they soaked.

Labyrinthia and its citizens didn’t _stink,_ at least not any more than the regular human. Still, the city certainly could have used a few indoor lavatories here and there. Even the Courthouse—there was a quaint brick structure at the edge of the woods, but a privy was still a privy at heart. She hated having to brave the elements just to do her business. And, after a harrowing incident during her pre-inquisitor years, she’d sworn off ever stepping foot inside the garrison latrines again.

But here, in her own private haven, there was no need to worry about any of that. She was wrapped in a cocoon of modern lavishness; she didn’t even have to wait for the fire to heat her bath water. Saffron-infused rosewater closed around her as she stepped into the tub; she released a sigh of contentment, sinking down to her chin as she melted in its comforting embrace. Her unbound hair floated in lank tendrils around her face, sticking to her collarbone when she rose.

Leaning against the far end of the tub, she gazed up at the constellations painted onto the alcove’s domed lid. The steam rising from the water made it seem as though she were staring up at the night sky through hazy clouds. The water’s rich scent soaked straight into her pores, covering her with a natural floral perfume. In a town of sweat, armor, and farms, she liked to think that her rosewater concoctions were a breath of fresh air to everyone she passed on the street.

A lazy part of her wanted to idle, to sit in the water until it grew cold and then demand that they fill it again for a second round. Time, however, was one of the few luxuries that she didn’t possess. She dared not soak longer, knowing from experience how long it would take Hannah to fix her hair; she might have been a witch herself when it came to braids, but that sort of magic took time and patience.

Eve combed shampoo through her long hair with her fingers, taking special care to break apart the thickest strands at the roots. Any curls that didn’t separate easily would fall victim to the comb later, with her aching scalp paying the price. She took some enjoyment out of washing her body, the soap sliding easily over her smooth skin.

She had no clue if other ladies enjoyed their servant’s assistance in the bath, but she didn’t; she was fully capable of washing herself, and self-reliant enough to crave sole responsibility for her own body. The bathroom was one of the few places that she could truly be alone with her thoughts. No matter how well-meant the sentiment, helpful hands would only encroach on her privacy.

Taking up a waiting washcloth, she tried to ignore the ugly wound on her right wrist. A purple-gray mess of deep tissue scars, the clear mark of fire stretched from fingertips to forearm. She didn’t like to touch the mark unless there was something—usually her glove—acting as a barrier between it and her unmarred skin. If she started to think about it, she wouldn’t be able to stop; it seemed to burn at times, begging for her undivided attention. A flashback was the last thing she needed before an important meeting.

While the bathtub drained, she wrapped up in a warm towel and called for her uniform. Hannah appeared, her arms loaded with neatly folded fabric; the deep burgundy uniform was draped neatly over the top of the pile, its golden buttons gleaming in the light. The uniform was ornately beautiful, but a hassle to dress in; Eve only wore it on Parade days, and when formally summoned to appear in the Audience Room. 

Hannah handed over her underclothes, leaving her to put them on as she inspected the shirtwaist. Thankfully the ceremonial uniform was designed with a hint of modern flair; unlike her usual Inquisitor’s uniform, she could get away with boyshorts. The knee-length chemise would have been impossible, so she instead wore a plain white basque. Suspenders connected to its lace hem held up traditionally black hose. 

Then the white shirtwaist with its perfect row of pearly buttons, tucked neatly into the dark uniform breeches. Its decorative ruffles peeked over the collar of her coat, a pale contrast to the wine colored fabric. Hannah quickly buttoned the coat up the front, adjusting the bust to suit her eye before dusting off the epaulettes. Finally, she helped her to step into her gold-accented high boots before tying the matching yellow ribbon at her collar.

“Lovely,” she quipped, looking her over once more with a nod. “Now, let’s fix that hair.” Eve sat before the mirror, looking up at the eye motif as Hannah took a comb to her curls. She clenched her jaw at every snag, trying to focus on the ruby pupil at the center of the sprawling ironwork. Her combed hair fanned over her shoulders, the ends already beginning to curl in the humid room.

The High Inquisitor’s usual hairstyle was an elegant tri-braid updo. Eve could never tell just how Hannah knew where to part the hair at her crown, using the small end of the comb to draw perfectly straight lines out of her bangs. She kept a single curl free at the temples, rolling it around her finger for volume before letting it fall over her ears. Her bangs, too short to properly brush back, were left to hang over her forehead.

Then she worked on one side at a time. Gathering the hair, she brushed it until it lay smooth and flat against her scalp. Then she French braided the hair on each side, rolling it around and around until it sat in a neat little bun above each ear. The remainder of her curls were gathered with a ribbon matched to the shade of her uniform; to keep it out of the way, Hannah often plaited it into a stiff braid and cinched the end with an ornamental metal cuff. The other braids she hid beneath decorated cones, secured in place with a few well-hidden pins. 

“Here, Miss: your gloves.” They were her second-best pair, black leather supple from use. She put them on, tugging the right roughly over her scar, and then held out her hands one at a time to receive her gauntlets. The golden claws were newly polished and glowed brightly, she could see her reflection in the plate metal lining the back of her palm. 

Looking back at her reflection, she found that Eve had vanished entirely from the mirror. High Inquisitor Darklaw stared back instead, a neutral frown tilting her unadorned lips. A sudden heat stung her eyes and she blinked, swallowing down the lump that threatened to grow in her throat. 

Darklaw rose, turning from the mirror and taking in her first real breath of the day. She exhaled slowly, but there was no recapturing the earlier calm she’d had in the bedroom. What little peace she had in her life existed only with Eve Belduke, and she was never able to stay Eve for long. She needed to get on with her day.

“Thank you, Hannah.” Even the High Inquisitor wasn’t above giving gratitude where it was deserved.

“You’re very welcome, Miss. Your cloak is downstairs; shall I call the stables and have them ready your horse?”

“No.” Darklaw looked over her shoulder, down the hall to the open door of her airing bedroom. Sunlight blanketed the carpet in a soft, ethereal glow. “It’s a beautiful day,” she announced. “I think I’ll walk.”

* * *

Darklaw crossed over the bridge leading to the garrison, nodding at the front guard as they snapped into twin salutes. The knight in charge of the gate hurried ahead of her, throwing his weight against the lever mechanism with a heaving grunt. She passed between the solemn copper statues, never breaking stride as she entered the gatehouse.

The broad path leading from the gatehouse to the Audience Room stairs had been cleaned; the cobbled sandstone gleamed pale against the dark muddy peaks on either side of its neatly spaced edging. The mud had dried in the morning sun, leaving behind the cracked impressions of wheels, horseshoes, and countless boot prints in every size imaginable. The purple pennants flying from the carriage house turrets snapped in the wind, elegantly unfurling against the cloudless sky.

The garrison yard was an explosion of activity; it appeared that everyone was taking advantage of the sunny weather. The carriage house was the only thing tightly shut; all the other buildings had doors propped open, their shutters thrown wide to allow as much natural light to enter as possible. Clean laundry had been strung to dry in the breezeway between the barracks and captains’ quarters, impeccable lines of fluttering tunics and hose. 

As always, there were knights everywhere she turned. There were a few spindly-legged foals were being exercised in the stable yard beside their mothers; a large group of men around her own age leaned over the fence, calling jovial orders to the stable lads and openly discussing the animals amongst themselves. Two middle-aged captains sat on a bench in front of the armory, their heads bent over an article in the daily paper. A pack of squires idled in a shady corner, swapping jokes and talking over each other with animated gestures.

Another captain emerged from the gatehouse, pausing only to offer her a prompt salute before making his way to the center of the yard. He stopped next to an old fence post, on which was mounted a rusty iron bell. Tugging a pocket watch from his tunic, he clicked open the cover and squinted at the face; his mouth moved silently as he counted the seconds, one hand grasping blindly for the frayed rope hanging from the bell. Then, with a punctual nod, he took a deep breath.

“ _ Quarter-till! _ ” he boomed, his voice nearly drowning out the bell’s rapid-fire clanging. Most of the knights stopped what they were doing and looked up at the sound; they did little more than acknowledge the time before returning to their work. The group of squires groaned, breaking apart and shuffling their feet as they wandered off to find their posts.

A volley of sound erupted from the green roofed schoolhouse, followed by the unmistakable thundering of feet. Thirty or so children bottlenecked at the open doorway, pushing and shoving at each other before bursting from the darkened room into the sunlight; she was forced to slow down as they swarmed over the path, shouting and squealing in an explosion of the morning’s pent-up energy.

Every one of them wore the distinctive shapeless tunic and muted green hose of the pages. Cloth bands on their right arms were emblazoned with the color and heraldry of their chosen knights. The younger ones were barely seven years old; they moved together in bunches like flocks of birds, trying their best to keep from being unceremoniously trodden on. The eldest towered over their peers, some already suffering from the breakouts of acne and patchy facial hair that accompanied puberty.

The captain stood his ground against the tide, bellowing orders that could barely be heard over the tumult. The pages dispersed at the sound of his voice, sprinting over the muddy ground as they searched for their knights. One mousy, freckled snip of a girl, barely nine years old, somehow managed to shove several grown men aside before climbing the stable fence to join her master; the man fairly glowed with smug pride, casually ignoring his comrades’ heated glares as he patted his page’s head with absentminded affection. 

Pages were received into the garrison at age seven; most knights willing to foster a future member of the Order chose their wards at the spring tryouts. Any child could be inducted, regardless of background; all they needed was a good head on their shoulders, the ability to admit mistakes, and a willingness to be taught. Of course, some innate talent didn’t hurt. 

It was no secret that a life of knighthood opened up new opportunities to otherwise lower class citizens. They were guaranteed a steady career with advancement opportunity; there was even the tempting offer of land and, if they played their cards right, a noble title. If nothing else, they were certain of a comfortable pension when they reached old age.

In an attempt to secure their children’s futures, the hopeful parents had to relinquish custody of the child to the garrison for formal training and discipline. To limit their natural dependence on family, pages were only allowed infrequent visits with their loved ones. Their duty to the Storyteller came before everything else: this was the first lesson learned, and often one of the hardest they had to face in their fourteen years as trainees. 

The bond formed between page and knight was a vital, necessary replacement for the lost familial connection. To the children that served them, they were more than masters: they were mentors, role models, guardians and comforters. It was their sacred honor to mold their charge into proper knight material, to teach them etiquette and the unwritten rules of chivalry.

Under their master’s watchful eye and instruction, the pages would grow to become squires at age fourteen. Squires were given more responsibility, but also a greater measure of freedom to compensate. They were allowed to return home for holidays, and were allowed to patrol the less active streets without supervision. It was considered proof of their growing influence in the community, and an unspoken test of their skills; only those with dedication and proper training could ever hope to graduate to knighthood.

Therefore, it was imperative that an unshakeable lifelong bond be formed between the two, teacher and pupil. Their talent and discipline reflected directly onto their masters; it was the mark of a great man to raise a judicious, loyal knight, worthy of highest distinction. Doing so took many years of dedicated focus. It was considered both a great honor and greater responsibility; many never took on more than one page in their career.

_ Speaking of which _ …. Two knights were standing guard at either side of the Audience Room steps, their visors raised against the sun’s warmth; they were both tall, but where one was broad as an ox, the other was slender as a reed. The skinnier of the two was occupied with shooing off a page, trying to keep his voice down to an acceptable level.

“You heard Captain’s orders!” he hissed, waving one gauntlet dismissively at the curly-haired page. The boy merely laughed, dodging the guard’s halfhearted blow. He was missing his knight’s insignia, but the guard must have known who he was for he added, “Go on, ‘fore one of us reports you! I mean it; I’m going to laugh when I see you running laps tomorrow.” Sticking out his tongue one last time, the page dashed across the emptying yard, vaulting over a straw horse and nearly colliding with a startled blacksmith as he rounded the corner.

“Cor,” the guard clicked his tongue and swore, not noticing Darklaw as she approached the stairs. 

“He does it because you let him,” the broad one growled. “You ought to ignore such childish behavior, the way I do. And don’t say  _ cor _ , it’s vulgar and coarse.”

“But it ‘ent right to ignore him though, is it? Not when he’s—” Finally he noticed whose company he was in, his ruddy face paling as he quickly abased himself and saluted. If the broader one felt the same shame, it didn’t show on his face as he mirrored his partner’s gesture and bowed.

“High Inquisitor Darklaw,” they greeted, hands lingering on their chests until they raised fully from the respectful bow. The broad one added, “We were told to expect you, ma’am. The Storyteller and his honored guest are already awaiting your arrival in the Audience Room.”

“Thank you,” she said politely, nodding to them before climbing the stairs.  _ Guest?  _ Arthur hadn’t mentioned there being a third party to their meeting. She was thankful that she’d chosen to wear the formal uniform after all; it made it easier to be in character.

The path to the Audience Room was, as always, devoid of life. The seaborn wind whistled through the battlements as she walked across the landing, stirring her hair and flapping the gold-fringed fabric hanging over the balcony rail. The door puzzle was unlocked; she could see the owls eyeing her askance as she turned the handle, the numbers above their heads stuck on the stylized number 3.  _ The Teller, the Order, the Inquisition,  _ she recited to herself as she advanced.

The main room was dim, but not dark. The sconces weren’t lit in favor of a fire in the large grate, and sunlight poured through the large windows; the diagonal muntins separating the panes cast diamond patterns on the carpet. She noticed Arthur first, seated in his velvet padded throne on the dais; he was half-reclined beneath the stylized open book on its gold-plated baldachin. One hand idly turned the pages in the giant copy of the  _ Historia Labyrinthia _ that he carried with him for show. 

Arthur glanced up as she entered, motioning for her to approach the dais. He closed the book, placing it on the stand beside his throne before lacing his hands in his lap.

“Good morning, Eve. You’re right on time.”

“Did you expect anything less?” A movement caught her eye and she turned her head automatically, noticing a figure by the window. She froze at the all-too-familiar glint of gold at his cuff, bristling instantly when she saw who was to be joining them.

“Hello, Eve.” That’s it? The first words he’d spoken to her in months, and all he had to say was  _ hello _ ?! It shouldn’t have held so much power over her; they shouldn’t have been anything more than a civil address. Yet those two words cut her to the marrow, sliding easily through her iron defenses. Why was he always so passive, so ghostlike in his mannerisms? For once in his life, why couldn’t he have  _ substance _ —callous anger, indignation, hurt pride… anything!

The first words that came to mind were too acidic to speak; even if he was deserving of their poison, she didn’t want to taste that bitterness on her tongue. She gulped them down, taking a deep breath as her stomach churned. So he wanted to be civil, huh? Two could play at that game.

“Hello, Sir Belduke.” He visibly flinched, giving her a small taste of that wounded pout she loathed.  _ Stop sulking when it’s your fault, old man!  _ She pointedly turned away, blocking him from her line of vision with one of the ornate pillars lining the aisle. Arthur watched the interaction silently, shaking his head with a soft hum when she offered nothing more. He chose not to comment on her behavior, pointing to an armchair that had clearly been placed for her.

“Have a seat, Eve.” She obliged him, eager to hear his news and trying to hide the fact. She couldn’t help but arrange herself on the edge of the seat, unwittingly leaning forward as she waited. The silence dragged out and she allowed it, brimming all the while with impatience.

“As I said in my letter,” Arthur began with a slow breath, “Your father and I met the new contractor for Project Labyrinthia.”

“Yes.” She couldn’t resist any longer. “The meeting went well, I trust; were there any complications? And what are your opinions on the contractor: will they be good for us, or bad?” 

“The meeting went… well enough,” Arthur surmised vaguely. “As well as could be expected, all things considered.” His long fingers plucked at his beard, frown lines creasing his brow behind the mask. “And as for our new contractor—hmm. I believe that she is… well, she certainly proves to be—” He turned to look over his shoulder at her father. “How would you say it, Newton?” Newton turned to face them, regarding the room with a sallow air before offering his opinion.

“Dr. Hywater is voracious.” He spoke with usual placidity, but Darklaw knew him well enough to catch the wry undercurrent in his tone. Arthur chuckled, shoulders quivering as the sound trailed into a rattling cough.

“You’re right,” he managed, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. “That’s the word.” Newton didn’t return his mirth, his studying blue eyes wandering over the paneling above her head before returning to the horizon. Darklaw thought that he had already left them, his mind roaming beyond the sea and out of reach; to her surprise, he spoke after only a moment’s pause.

“Tell her, Arthur. Now.” Darklaw blinked, unused to hearing such an imperative sentence out of her father. Usually the man was a right pushover, barely able to stand on his own two feet when needed. To hear him issue a clear order—an order to the Storyteller, at that—was very odd.

“Right… right.” Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Eve, we’ve called you to this meeting today because, well—because we need your help.” 

“My help?” What on earth did he mean? She plucked at the white ruffle peeking from her sleeve, puzzled. She was already helping them; her entire job—no, her entire  _ life  _ revolved around the fact that the Story must be accurate. Did Arthur mean that they required more from her? She was already stretched thin as it was.

“Yes.” Arthur seemed to hesitate, tongue rolling in his cheek. “Erm, as Newton stated, Dr. Hywater is a highly ambitious colleague. She was given first pick of our contract by default, but in accepting it she believes that she is taking on a challenge.”

“A challenge? What do you mean?” Challenging wasn’t a word she would have associated with Project Labyrinthia. After all, they had managed to solve nearly every hypothesis her father had laid out in his original proposal. They’d maintained long-term hypnosis on a fully controlled city. They’d even proven that the poison used to make the Story’s ink had no lasting side effects—that is, beyond a general airheadedness that managed to work in their favor more often than not.

“What I mean is this: Dr. Hywater was kind enough to bring to our attention that certain factors of Project Labyrinthia’s contract are seen as… well, how shall I put it?” He hummed, casting his eyes to the ceiling as he thought. “Let’s just say that to the government, contracts like ours are seen as financial black holes. Small ones, of course, but that means little when the time comes to make certain fiscal decisions.”

“ _ What _ ?” She sat up in her chair, uncrossing her legs with a frown. That made absolutely no sense whatsoever! The work that took place on the island was incredibly important, and the government had expressed high interest in it for as long as she could remember. That alone meant that Labyrinthia wasn’t eating funding… right?

“How can they say that?” she demanded, indignant. “We’ve given them over a decade of research, and we have the papers to prove it! Even they can’t deny that our progress with the hypnosis has been—” Arthur raised a hand, effectively silencing her. She sat back, confused, one anxious foot bouncing as she waited for his explanation.

“It’s not that our work goes unacknowledged,” he assured her. “The problem lies instead in that it’s—how  _ did _ she put it?” he mused. “To say simply, the powers that be have decided that our work is, in a word, old news. They want to see something new. We are having to compete with the latest field research. And let’s not even start on the cutting-edge technology that’s being developed as we speak. Dr. Hywater was telling your father about a contract pertaining to the future of time travel; wouldn’t that be something?” She was not so naïve as to be distracted by his false cheer.

_ Cut the crap. _

“So what I’m hearing is that we have to offer something as enticing as whatever these other contracts have going on. If we can’t do that, then we’ll be dropped.” Darklaw could hardly believe it. She had watched her father and Arthur work, day and night, on this facility. They all had dedicated fourteen years of life to Labyrinthia and her citizens. Now, without a single word of excuse, they were at risk for being thrown into the rubbish heap. Yesterday’s trash.

“In a nutshell, more or less.” Arthur grimaced. Darklaw nodded. She understood now why he would need to ask for her help. Clearly, Arthur and her father were cooking up a plan to keep Project Labyrinthia’s funding. There was no other way about it; even if her father were to dip into the family coffers, that would only be a temporary crutch. The only way to keep their supply from being exhausted was to rely on the contract and its plentiful monetary sponsors.

“Well? What are we to do now?” she asked, ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work. “I’ll try to assist in any way I can.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Arthur replied. “Thankfully for us, Dr. Hywater sees the potential in Labyrinthia. She believes that we aren’t being properly utilized, in regard to being a government research facility.” At the window, Newton let out a low breath; the sound was dangerously close to a huff. She ignored him, nodding for Arthur to continue.

“Dr. Hywater has taken the liberty of procuring a government subcontract for us. It’s her expressed hope that this contract will be the first of many, should we be able to offer the data they require from us. This experiment will be the first of its kind in Labyrinthia to date.”

“A subcontract?” Something like unease stirred to life in the back of her mind. “What sort of experiment? What would they have us do?”

“The title is  _ A Comprehensive Study on Forced Emotional Attachment in Direct Correlation to Emotional State.  _ Bit of a mouthful.” He drew a stapled booklet from the folds of his cloak, handing it across the dais to her. True to his word, the lengthy title was printed in heavy black font across the top of the first page. She flipped through the thin pages, looking for charts or even a diagram to help explain what on earth  _ Forced Emotional Attachment  _ meant, but there was nothing beyond paragraph after paragraph of small, close print and an index full of footnotes. 

Looking up, she instinctively turned towards her father. Still at the window, he kept his arms crossed as he watched the garrison activity in the yard below the fancy balcony. He didn’t say a word, and his face was as impassive as ever. Golden fingers twitched a nervous rhythm against the crook of his elbow.

“Meaning?” she finally asked the inevitable, handing the booklet back to the Storyteller. “What are they expecting out of this? Out of us?”

“Stress,” he answered, emphasizing the sibilant  _ s _ . “Specifically, they want us to observe and report on stress that results from intense emotional bonds. The theory behind the experiment is that these bonds place a strain on the human body, or at least the mind. This is what they would like for us to research.”

“Stress,” she repeated, the words slowly sinking in. “From emotional bonds. But… what is that sort of information supposed to prove? What are they going to  _ do  _ with it?”

“That’s not for us to know. It is our job to study what they want us to study, retrieve the data when the time comes, and forward it to the proper authorities. Whatever happens after is not our prerogative.”

“But—” Darklaw shook her head, mind awhirl with facts and figures. There were so many factors! Were they expected to study as many types of emotional bonds as possible, or…? And how were they supposed to measure that in the first place? What of their regular research; was that to be left on the backburner while they scrambled to complete this subcontract? And what about— She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, feeling a headache starting to throb behind her eyes.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed sympathetically, noticing her grim expression. “To be honest, we felt rather the same way. It’s a very broad umbrella, isn’t it? So much ground to cover.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Well, you needn’t worry. Newton and I have put together a plan.” Arthur smiled at her, clearly expecting her to be joyful, or perhaps grateful at that news. She wasn’t so easily convinced.

“Which is?”

“After hard consideration, we’ve narrowed our options down to a singular experiment, one that would take roughly six months to complete.” Seeing her incredulous expression, he cleared his throat sheepishly. “We’re operating on borrowed time here, Eve. I’m afraid that we don’t have the luxury of anything grandiose or opulent.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she replied frankly. “Six months is a very short amount of time to—”

“So we’re aware,” he interrupted, “but that’s all we’ve been offered. We’ve had to make do with cutting corners before; this is no different. The plan we’ve chosen should prove to be the easiest option, and hopefully a profitable one. With any luck, we can hand over the data and pocket the payout without any fuss.”

“Six months.” She tallied up the months in her head.  _ January, February, March….  _ The mental calendar marched on, dates flying by at a rate that made her head spin. “So… April, then. We would be finished by April.”

“Ideally.” Darklaw considered this information with a frown. Page tryouts were always the second week of April, meaning that the garrison was a bureaucratic mess. Sir Barnham was virtually absent from their shared office during that time; she wasn’t sure the man slept once that whole week. As a courtesy to both him and herself, she tried to keep any scheduled witch activity to a minimum.

Now they were asking her to take on extra work during a time she usually had to compensate for short handedness. She didn’t relish the thought of being pushed to her limit this way, but if the contract would be finished by April then there was no real reason she couldn’t agree to help where possible. She was a Belduke, after all: reliable, innovative, and unshakeable. She could handle anything they threw at her; she’d proven as much before, and would do so again.

“Alright. How can I help?” 

“You still haven’t told her, Arthur.” Newton didn’t move a muscle, but his tone spoke of growing impatience. “Explain yourself the way you promised you would.”

“Yes.  _ Ahem. _ ” Arthur glanced at her father, but he showed no sign of turning from the window anytime soon. Darklaw counted her breaths, intent on preserving her outward serenity as she waited for Arthur to stop fidgeting on his throne and tell her what needed to be done to save not only their contract, but Labyrinthia as well.

She couldn’t think of any obvious, immediate way to assist them with the subcontract. There was little she could do when it came to openly influencing the townspeople; they respected her position as High Inquisitor; they even feared her a little. But she was too far removed from their daily society to be of any use, at least there.

There was always the possibility that Arthur didn’t require anything specifically from  _ her _ . He might want to borrow a team of capable, trustworthy Shades to do some of the legwork. Or maybe he needed her in a more administrative capacity. She was a scientist’s daughter; she could collect and compile data just as quickly as the next lab aide. Then again, he might have been anticipating the need for an extra set of eyes in town.

Maybe he wanted her opinion on who in Labyrinthia would make a good test subject. He was in London more often than not, after all. She could certainly think of a few citizens who were anything if not stressful. Mr. Punchenbaug, for example… there was no doubt in her mind that he had his fair share of strained emotional bonds. But… couldn’t her father have supplied that information? After all, he was closer to the common folk.

_ Their beloved alchemist… give me a break. _

“You see, Eve, this experiment that we chose? It’s one that, in truth, only someone like you can hope to accomplish.” Like her? What was that supposed to mean? Was he referring to her position of power, her role as his right hand, or—?

“I’m not sure that I follow.” Arthur shot her an uncomfortable look, shifting yet again in his seat. She wondered if he was in pain. He had been complaining of aches more and more frequently, thanks in part to the progression of his disease. He’d even asked her to order him some potent sleep medication, so that he could be assured of a healthful night’s rest. 

Darklaw didn’t know the nature of his disease, or even it’s name; neither he nor her father felt like honoring her with a straight answer. They asked for her help, wanted her resources and manpower, yet they constantly withheld information from her. They treated her like a child, rather than the capable adult they knew her to be. It was just another one of the many annoyances that plagued her daily life.

“What we need from you is—that is—hmm.” Again he glanced at Newton and was ignored. Running a jeweled hand over his face, he tried to offer her a smile. It was too tight at the corners and set her on edge instantly. Her heart shuddered behind her breastbone, a chill running through her veins. She couldn’t pinpoint a reason why but… she didn’t like that look.

“Well?” Her voice was croaky with adrenaline. Hearing the first stir of panic, Newton turned from the window. His expression was an emotionless void, little better than the empty gaze from the Storyteller’s half mask. She blanched, wishing for anything from him other than  _ that.  _ He was a physician, for god’s sake! Was he not capable of a little false confidence? Arthur’s forced grin tightened further, and her heart sank. 

“For the next six months, how would you like to be married?” 


	5. Chapter IV

For one long, terrible moment, she didn’t know what to think.

_ Marriage? Me?  _ Surely she had misheard. No, no—he was joking. This was a cruel joke, not funny in the slightest and with no visible punchline. She waited for his expression to change, for the usual wheezing chuckle that accompanied one of his attempts at humor. There was nothing.

“A…Are you serious?” she had to ask.  _ Where’s the laughing? Why aren’t they laughing?  _ There was no possible way that  _ that  _ was an earnest question. Her father watched her carefully, his hands locked behind his back; he tried to meet her eyes and failed. “Is this some sort of practical joke?” she choked out, the question more directed towards him. Why didn’t he tell his stupid business partner to stop goofing around?

“Now, Eve—calm down,” Arthur urged her, one hand reaching out as if to steady her. She leaned away from his touch, dread coiled in her stomach; any moment now it would unfurl into something she wouldn’t be able to hold in. “It wouldn’t be binding,” Arthur continued, in a tone that she could only assume was meant to reassure her. “It’s all planned out. Listen to us before making a choice. Please?”

“I—” Her heart stuttered, fluttering with alarm.  _ How dare he!?  _ A wild fury rose within her like a maelstrom, directed entirely at the man sitting in front of her.  _ Listen?! If I hear one more word, I think I’ll be sick! _

If she had any sense, she’d close her ears to this drivel, stand up, and stomp from the Audience Room without another word. She could not, she  _ would not  _ listen to any more of his insulting, his assuming, his…his… utterly asinine nonsense! She opened her mouth, ready to tell him that then and there. What came out was something else entirely.

“Go ahead.”  _ Damn it!  _ She had become too used to humoring him; now it was a bad habit. But there was no time to stew; he was speaking, and she was obliged to listen, for her own sake if no one else’s. 

“This is how it will happen.” Arthur laced his fingers beneath his chin, studying her with his uncovered eye. The other, which not even the most advanced surgery of the time could save, was scarred shut and hidden beneath the black half mask. Its jeweled pupil glinted at her when he moved, hiding behind a pale, messy curtain of bangs.

“The newest chapter of the Story is yours; we’ll use the system we already have in place. The Parade will, effectively, announce your upcoming nuptials for you. Of course, the High Inquisitor will be just as surprised as everyone else. After all, no one knows what the Story holds until the Parade. We can’t be promoting heresy within the ranks, after all.”

_ Oh. _

So that’s how it was. Her fists clenched in her lap as she listened. She could hear them now, glowing with praise for their leader. Oh, what a  _ benevolent  _ Storyteller he was! How  _ kind  _ of him to write a beautiful Story for his own High Inquisitor! How grateful she must be! How  _ glorious  _ it was, to have one’s needs taken care of by such a great and powerful man!

_ How patronizing, you mean. _

“You will be married a month after the Parade: a quick courting period, I know, but that can’t be helped now. In the meantime, Newton has already started to prepare a home for you in town. Naturally, Lady Darklaw’s—unfortunately deceased—parents have provided for her in a manner befitting her status. You’ll have all the amenities of a comfortable manor home, with a sizeable bit of land attached as an added bonus. A prime situation, to be sure.”

“It’s on the empty lot near the Square,” Newton admitted shyly. “Beside the old mill. The land is very beautiful there, and I think—”

“Across the street from your practice, you mean.” She shouldn’t have snapped at him, she knew that she shouldn’t have, but she was beyond rationality at this point. “Let me guess,” she added coldly. “You’d like to keep a close eye on me: is that right, sir? Are you worried that I’ll manage to mess this up?”

Newton flinched, the corners of his mouth twitching. She assumed that he would turn away, unwilling to acknowledge her insolence with an answer. To her astonishment, he managed to meet her vindictive gaze.

“I thought you might be more comfortable in an area that you’re already familiar with,” he stated dispassionately. Her mouth shut instantly, an awkward blush staining her cheeks in the wake of his effective dismissal. The fact that he bothered to care at all made her both confused and oddly grateful. The feeling was dangerously close to guilt, so she shied away from it as quickly as possible.

“There are, as you can imagine, many factors to consider.” By the way he spoke, it was clear that he’d been considering them for some time now. That didn’t surprise her; her father was the type of man to worry about every possible outcome. It worked well in the laboratory, but outside of it… not so much.

“If something were to go wrong—not that I’m saying it will,” he amended, “but one can’t be too careful. If things  _ were _ to go sour, I would be much more at ease knowing that my child was close to a friendly threshold.” That was the extent of his courage; his eyes fell from hers, landing squarely on the patch of carpet between her boots. 

“Nothing will go wrong,” Arthur said encouragingly; she wasn’t entirely sure which one of them he was trying to encourage. “We’ve raked over this plan with a fine toothed comb. We’re prepared for anything that could happen. And you won’t be alone, of course. Newton suggested that you might like to bring a small entourage of your choosing from the manor.” He smiled, clearly trying to sell the thought that her comfort was their top priority. She couldn’t bring herself to return the gesture.

“We’ve only been allowed six months so regrettably—or thankfully, perhaps—your marriage will be a short one. During that time, you will attempt to forge a bond with your new husband. No,” he corrected himself sharply, “you won’t attempt. You will succeed. That’s one of the most important factors, after all.”

“Oh, come now: don’t look so worried!” She didn’t offer a reply.  _ Worried  _ wasn’t the expression currently twisting her features. Disbelief, maybe. Or, more likely, what he saw was her blatant disgust. “After all, no one will expect the two of you to fall in love instantly. It’s an arranged marriage, after all; that would be preposterous.” He chuckled. “But you will have to incite him a little.” 

_ Excuse me?!  _ What in the hell was that supposed to mean?! Her entire body recoiled from the thought, and its implications. The tight coil in her stomach liquified, flooding her from head to toe with unprecedented anger.

“ _ Incite?! _ ” she hissed through clenched teeth. Her jaw ached with the effort of not screaming, hands physically gripping the chair arms to keep herself seated. She wanted to fly at him, to scratch and tear until his face was as ragged as her emotions. If he was blind enough to believe that she’d willingly traipse into bed just to please him, that she would give up her first time to a— _ I’ll claw out his other eye first! _

“Eve?” Something in her expression must have finally tipped him off to her thoughts. “Don’t mistake me—”

“The Storyteller isn’t speaking of physical intimacy,” Newton cut in. His solemn expression burned in its intensity. “No one could be expected to approach an experiment in that manner. We would never force you into a situation like that.” This last statement seemed to be more for Arthur, who merely nodded his acquiescence.

“Of course not,” he agreed calmly. “You must remember that Labyrinthia is a controlled research environment. At the end of the day this is an experiment, nothing more. Your father and I will take every precaution possible to ensure your safety; if you feel uncomfortable at any time, you need only say the word and we’ll make adjustments where necessary.”  _ And what if I feel uncomfortable  _ **_now_ ** _? What then, sir? _

“In any case…” Arthur cleared his throat again, wincing as he moved his weight to his other elbow. “Does it matter what happens, so long as the connection is there? We are after data here, after all. When the time comes to end the experiment, we will be expected to produce something for our efforts. It doesn’t matter how it was achieved, only that it _was_.” 

“And how do you propose we end the experiment?” she asked, unable to keep the heat from her voice. “How will this farce of a marriage be dissolved?”

“Easy: via deadly magic.” Arthur tilted his head, unwitting to the fact that his pet copied the motion on its perch. “Your husband will, ultimately, realize that you are a witch. There will be no denying it; he must see the Talea Magica in your hands. You will be imprisoned, tried, and burned at the midnight Court. Even the High Inquisitor cannot escape the fate of all witches.”

Her father looked positively green at this speech, his pale cheeks taking on a sickly hue. She had to admit that the concept didn’t exactly thrill her, either. No bodily harm would come to her from being dropped into the pit of fire—she wasn’t afraid of being executed. It was the tedium that she dreaded: the hours alone in a cold dungeon, the relentless interrogation, the jeering crowds that would swam to her trial. 

“The town will have a heyday with the scandal of it all,” Arthur stated, reading her thoughts. “After all, you’ll effectively be a witch who spent years hunting her own kind.”

“ _ Quelle horreur _ .” Her words dripped with thinly veiled sarcasm.

“Ah, well. We’ll study that, too.” Arthur studied his nails, his gaze shifting as he thought. “I’m sure the anthropologists will eat it up,” he added offhandedly.

“So that’s it, then.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t treat it as one.

“Your poor husband will watch you burn, and then? He’ll forget all about it once we work our own “magic”, won’t he? They all will.” He nodded to himself. “Once we have what we need, it’ll be quick work to suppress everyone’s memories. The last six months simply… won’t exist.” He snapped, erasing them from time with a single gesture. 

“Life will carry on, as it always does. You may return to your real home in the Eldwitch Wood, reclaiming the mantle of High Inquisitor in the process, and go about your business. Sir Barnham won’t ever know the difference; he’ll have returned to the garrison and forgotten all about you.”

“Sir… Barnham?” The world shook on its foundation; she could see it in her peripherals. The Storyteller had misspoken, clearly. He meant that  _ Inquisitor  _ Barnham will have forgotten about the crime, and her guilt. That his memories of both the interrogation and trial would be suppressed. With his Labyrinthian conditioning in place, he could condemn her to the flames and yet not bat an eye when she showed up the next week. 

But why would he have to  _ return _ to the garrison? What reason would there be for him to leave? And… why was her heart beating so quickly? 

“Ah, my apologies.” Arthur shook his head ruefully. “I must have forgotten to mention that part. Forgive me.”

“W-what part?”

“Sir Barnham is the other party in this little… charade.” Newton’s thin mouth tightened further, lips practically bloodless under the strain. “He is your future fiancé.”

“He—what?” The floor dropped from beneath her chair. “He—Sir Barnham is— _ what _ ?”

“Technically, you are  _ his  _ fiancée,” Arthur admitted. “You were chosen to be his mate, rather than the other way around. We believed it to be the best choice, all things considered.”

“You have already proven yourself compatible as coworkers,” Newton explained. “There’s an unmistakable bond between the two of you. I’ve observed it before, watching you work crime scenes together.” He flushed under her glare. “I do keep tabs on you, you know,” he said, somewhat defiantly.

“I wanted to ensure that your assistant inquisitor wasn’t hindering your ability to work. I was pleasantly surprised to find the opposite true. The two of you make an excellent team. That’s why we find it—not fitting, per se, but…  _ suitable  _ that you be the one to undertake the role alongside him.”

“Yes, the two of you are compatible. But it’s more than that, Eve,” Arthur said. “There’s no room for error here. We  _ need  _ this to go properly. And that means finding a witch that we can rely on, one who can—and will—use her Talea Magica when we require it. Not before, not after. Who else could we trust with that?”

“We can’t afford to hire an actress,” Newton stated plainly. “We have neither the time nor resources to train one. Even if we did, it would take far too long to foster the sort of honest relationship we’re looking for in our test subject. But your work is already half done, isn’t it? The two of you are compatible; he cares for you, as a coworker if not as a friend. With a little encouragement, he could care for you as a spouse, too.” 

“You’ve six months to get close, and then he’ll find you out to be a witch.” Arthur steepled his fingers, looking at her over his decorative talons. “Ideally, he will question, try, and condemn you himself.”

_ Who else would do it?  _ she wanted to ask. She and Sir Barnham  _ were  _ the Inquisition. No one else in Labyrinthia had the authorization to consign her to the flames. If she was on the stand, then only he could call for her death. It would be the ultimate betrayal, not just for him but for the citizens that depended on her to keep them safe.

Could she bring herself to do that? The citizens had no idea about the double life she led, and she couldn’t care less what they thought of her. But did she honestly think that she could keep a straight face while driving her dagger into his heart? Was she that much of a callous bitch?

Sir Barnham was the closest person to her in all of Labyrinthia, more by happenstance than any real urge for companionship. They had trained together as youths in the garrison. They still sparred on occasion, when the mood struck. They shared an office at the Courthouse. They had even spent countless hours on stakeouts and crime scene investigations, fighting off exhaustion with only the other for company.

As much as she hated to admit it, her father was right. Sir Barnham cared for her as a friend… and she felt the same way about him. He was the only person she could truly call a friend, in the general sense of the word. There was no denying that he was good company. He was strong, intelligent, warmhearted, loyal; he was even something of a comedian, if caught in the right mood. She would even go so far as to say that Zacharias Barnham was the one man in Labyrinthia that she would consider an equal. 

But… a husband? Her husband? Could she remain stalwart and unaffected whilst sharing his home, his name, his _life_? There was no doubt in her mind that he would be good to her, as good as he was already. He treated everyone in Labyrinthia with respect, if they were deserving of it; that would not change when she became his wife.

That was the sort of man he was… but what sort of  _ husband  _ was he? What would he expect from her, from himself? Would he be the sort of man to insist on remaining at her side, or would he keep his distance? Would he claim the archaic role as man of the house, or would he take his place as her equal? Would he demand that they share regimens? Ideas? Beds?

She understood what they were asking of her. Asking was being gratuitous, in her opinion; they were offering a choice, but really they were all but demanding it of her. She recognized the difference, and she scorned it with all her heart.

Yet, at the same time there seemed to be a sort of disconnect. Arthur and her father could have been speaking of anyone in Labyrinthia; her heartbeat was calm, steady, completely at odds with her racing thoughts. She found herself on a precipice, feeling as though she’d just leapt from solid ground and now waited, suspended, in the air. Her stomach was prepared for the drop, for the panic that would overtake her on the descent, but it never came.

_ It’s shock, isn’t it?  _ She was numb, a solid wall standing between what she thought and what she felt. Later it would crumble, and everything would come crashing down on her at once. But for the moment she was outside herself, standing beside the chair while her body remained seated. Every fibre of her being was devoted solely to making sense of the plan that had been laid out before her.

“And you’re sure he won’t remember anything?” That was her voice, but it sounded miles off. “You’re absolutely certain.”

“Not immediately.” Newton stepped forward, bridging the gap between them as he finally left the safety of the window and joined them on the dais. “When the experiment is over, his memories will be suppressed— _ suppressed, _ ” he reiterated firmly, “not erased. You know what that means. When his contract expires, or when Project Labyrinthia reaches its inevitable end, he will regain access to those memories.”

She did know that. Redoes came at a price. One day, he would remember every word, every glance, every last subtle gesture she’d ever made. If she went through with their plan, he would also remember that they had been married. He would remember the way she encouraged him, enticed him,  _ lied  _ to him. And he would hate her for it.

However, that was far in the future… right? The future was uncertain; what mattered was the present. Today, she could commit crimes for which there was no possibility of forgiveness. But it was equally as possible that, in the future, she wouldn’t expect to be pardoned. She might not even want it, not from him. Maybe his crimes would be just as bad, or worse. 

_ Why do I even care? What does it matter, what he thinks of me?  _ It wasn’t as though his opinion of her meant anything in the long run. She was who she was; he couldn’t change that. No one could.

Right?

“That consequence is one that we’ll all have to face one day, in one way or another,” Arthur reminded Newton calmly. “When the project is finished, everyone will regain access to their memories of Labyrinthia. They’ll recall anything and everything that ever happened to them here. That’s why the contract exists in the first place, isn’t it? They signed it, knowing all the while that they could have—” He fell silent at the sight of Newton’s cold glare.

“But until then, those memories… of me… they’ll be suppressed.” She had to make absolutely sure. She couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering over her, not when they had the ability to make the pain go away for a very long time. “He’ll be happy again.”

“As happy as he is now, at least.” Arthur seemed to sense her hesitation. “We won’t force him to grieve needlessly, Eve. Of that I can assure you. We’ll time the Parade so that it follows the trial as closely as possible. It will be a symbol of ongoing life in the face of adversity. Everyone will forget the High Inquisitor’s transgression, and Labyrinthia will become peaceful again.”

“And… it’s only for six months.”

“Less than that, once you factor in the time it will take for your trial and ex—capital punishment.” Newton stumbled over the words, but she found it easy to remain stone-faced at the knowledge of her fate.  _ Now it will be me in the cage. I’ll see what the witches see. I’ll be cast into the hellfire. It’s a fitting punishment, isn’t it? _

She felt that, on an intimate level, what they were doing had to be considered an unwarranted, inexcusable crime. Sir Barnham put a certain amount of trust in her, didn’t he? He trusted her not to touch his personal belongings in their shared office. He trusted her to be at his side, a comrade in battle. As his wife, he would trust her even more. That was his nature.

He was too trusting, by some degrees. He went out of his way to protect the accused until their crimes of witchcraft were confirmed in Court. Despite what others in Labyrinthia thought, he alone seemed to value the thought of “innocent until proven guilty”. He saw the value in each and every life. He trusted them to uphold the law, himself to enforce it, and her to have his back when it mattered.

If she accepted their request, she would be taking that hard-earned trust and grinding it to dust beneath her heel.

She could already see the hurt etched into his expression as witness after witness testified against her in Court. She could practically  _ hear  _ the soft pain in his voice as he questioned her, eyes begging for her to insist that it was all a big mistake. Would he take her treachery as a personal blow? Would he consider it treason against the Storyteller, or against his heart?

But… there was always a but, wasn’t there? Logic lingered at the back of her mind like a poisonous miasma, ready to taint her emotions with the cold eye of truth.

_ But  _ Arthur and her father were right in their observations. Sir Barnham had both regard and respect for her. He was closer to her than anyone in the garrison, perhaps even in the city itself. Marriage would only deepen what already existed between them—on his part, at least.

_ But  _ it was only for six months. One measly half year, barely two seasons strung together, and then it would all be over within a few short days. If it even took that long; some trials were over and done with within hours after arrest. She’d be treated to a short, lovely holiday at home—her real home—and after the Parade she’d be back at work without missing a beat. 

_ But  _ the consequences of saying no to their plan were too great to ignore. No matter what happened, Project Labyrinthia could  _ not  _ lose its funding. If the government pulled their contract prematurely, what would happen to them all? Even worse… what would happen to Espella?

The earliest days after the Great Fire were a dark blur, spots of greasy ash on the cinema tape of her memories. Often they felt more like an extended out-of-body nightmare, rather than something she’d lived through. Her recollection of the first few months were vignettes, standing out in stark contrast to the long gaps of empty nothingness on either side.

Riding in the hospital lift, her bandaged hand large and bulky in Arthur’s larger one as they went together to get Espella a gift from the downstairs shop. The taste of a sterile burn unit. The sweet nurse with the soft voice that held her, covering her eyes and crooning nonsense words into her ear while they cleaned her wounds.

The loneliness of an empty island, stiff summer winds whistling eerily through the burnt shells of houses. Sneaking into her father’s large bed after yet another nightmare, trembling with silent tears as she curled against his spine. Counting his vertebrae instead of sheep until she passed out from exhaustion. 

Frightening herself with her blood curdling scream the first time she unwittingly stumbled across a lit grate. Arthur on his knees, shaking Espella by the shoulders. Reading her best friend a goodnight story, pretending not to notice that she didn’t hear a word, her large blue eyes staring a million miles into the future.

Pretending to be the heroine in Arthur’s Stories, reclining in abject horror of the witch as the valiant knight—her father—protected her. Espella’s first laugh, her cheeks rosy and dimpled as she applauded. Arthur’s vow that his Stories always come true. His heartfelt plea, throwing away his pride as he begged for their help.

Even though she remembered little of those months, it was still hard to think about. If the Story was proven to be fake, would Espella remember everything? Would she again slump listlessly into a chair, staring into the distance and oblivious to everyone around her?

She knew that Arthur wouldn’t be able to handle that outcome; the heartbreak alone would kill him in his weakened state. If something happened to the Storyteller, who would take care of his daughter? She currently lived with a baker in town, but there was no guarantee that the woman would remain.

Would Labyrinthia become a ghost town again once everyone regained their memories? Would they pack up and head back to the lives they’d left behind? Would she be alone again, listening to the wailing breeze as it brushed through abandoned houses?

A chill slipped down her spine that had nothing to do with the chilly air. She stood, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the pressing isolation of her thoughts. She passed her father, dodging his feeble attempt to grab her wrist, and paused before the largest window.

Up here, high above the balcony and several stories above the garrison yard, the knights looked like overgrown ants. She watched them scurry about, half-hidden at times by the rounded edges of the curtain wall. Her eyes scanned the messy lines swarming between the buildings, but she didn’t see the familiar shock of red hair that designated their Leader. 

_ Marrying him wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.  _ It certainly beat marrying a veritable stranger. She knew something of his thoughts and habits. He did have a short temper, but she knew how to work around his moods. And, most importantly, she knew that he would conduct himself with honor and gallantry.

Many young maidens in Labyrinthia would have given anything to be in her place. They would have died from joy at the prospect of having him for a fiancé. She didn’t overlook the squealing fan club of teenage girls that always fought to be at the front of the crowd. They were so bothersome, waving their lace handkerchiefs and swooning if he twitched so much as a finger in their general direction. 

“How many weeks would I have to prepare?” she asked, not bothering to turn from the window. The sun helped to warm her, dappling pretty diamond patterns across her sleeves.

“The next Parade is scheduled to be Monday. After that, it will be four weeks until the wedding date. The construction on your home should be finished by then; Newton has two teams working around the clock, and has already begun to procure furniture and other necessities. By the time we’re through, the High Inquisitor’s backstory will be foolproof. You will, of course, have ample time to learn it.”

“So… in other words, it’s already been decided for me. Is that it?” She let her father have the worst of her glowering expression. Even though she could see the logic in their design, it seemed ridiculous that he would agree to let Arthur go through with it.

She had yet to hear a  _ shred  _ of argument against her being chosen as the sacrificial bride. Then again, what did she expect? That was his nature; her father was a coward, a man who would rather hide behind secrets and closed doors, choosing to ignore her and the rest of the world. 

“Of course not!” Arthur answered, properly taken aback. “Every preparation made so far has been something we would have done for anyone. But Eve, think about it: if you don’t agree to help us, who will? As Newton says, we can’t afford to pay an actress, or even to supply the training she’d need.”

“If there had been a way to do this without involving you at all,” Newton said, “then we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. You know that.”

“Do I? Sir?” His mouth twisted in exasperation. One of his biggest pet peeves was insolence; unfortunately for him, she was an expert in using cheek to her advantage. It didn’t help that she enjoyed pushing his buttons anyway, and she was too cross with him to bother being a good daughter. 

“You  _ should _ .” He inhaled sharply; when his eyes opened, he pinned her to the spot with his best patriarch glare. She wilted beneath its accompanying scowl; the last time she’d seen it, she’d been forced to leave his home in a blind fury. He’d fought back for once, and her feelings had been hurt by the worst thing in the world: blunt honesty, wielded by someone who knew her as well as she knew herself. The last thing she wanted was to face  _ that  _ particular weapon again.

“Whatever you say won’t change the fact that I’m little more than a pawn in your investigation,  _ Sir Belduke _ .”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it, sir? The only thing missing is your laboratory.” She laughed coldly. “Don’t worry: I’m not surprised by it. You’re a scientist at heart. It’s only natural that you would experiment on me. I just can’t help but wonder what your late wife would think about it.”

“We are not experimenting on  _ you _ .” Newton’s tone, already strained, grew raspy. “The experiment is on Sir Barnham. You are—”

“A tool.”

“A fellow scientist!” She watched him tug at the bangs hanging loose from his ponytail, a surefire sign that he was growing stressed. “You are an observer, Eve.”

“I’m far more than  _ that _ . From what I hear, you’ve both planned on me doing far more than observing.”

“That’s—you—” Newton stopped himself, tongue tracing his teeth before he left the dais. Striding to the mantel, he stopped only a few paces before his boots would have touched the ashes in the grate. “I give up, Eve. Either accept the proposal or don’t.”  _ That’s just like you,  _ she scowled.  _ Slithering away from your problems, just like your namesake. Nothing but a common garden variety newt. _

“Eve?” Arthur was gentle in the silence that followed. “Newton’s right; you’re as much a researcher as the rest of us. We didn’t plan on forcing you to make a choice; we only wanted to present you with the facts, so that your decision would be a conscious one. All we ask is that you’re sensible in your answer.”

_ I don’t want to marry him. I don’t  _ **_want_ ** _ to!  _ Why couldn’t everything stay as it was? She knew that, even if she did take it out on them, her father and Arthur weren’t to blame. The true culprits were faceless suits at the government level; she saw them in her mind’s eye, black ties and theatre masks hiding their true expressions. They were untouchable gods, Roman sovereigns who decided the fate of their victims with a single thumb.

With no other outlet available, her inner frustration turned to whining. Why couldn’t some other girl marry Sir Barnham and be his pretty little housewife? Why could she not be the stoic third party, the sympathetic shoulder he leaned on in his hour of need? Why could they not remain friends? Why did she have to be the one causing him so much pain?

_ You know why.  _ A small voice in her head answered for her. It belonged to the darkest part of her, in the place where she dared not venture, sleeping in the shadows. It raised its head, sniffing the air before taking full advantage of her momentary weakness.

_ You don’t belong in Labyrinthia. Your place is in the Eldwitch Wood, with the rest of your despised ilk. You are cursed by fate; your lot in life is to cause suffering to everyone you come into contact with. You know what you must do, so stop crying like a spoiled child and get to work. _

_ But…. _

_ Someone who cared less might  _ **_really_ ** _ hurt him,  _ it continued. Its voice softened, placating and imposing all at once.  _ If there must be a villain in this Story, it’s better that it’s you. You will break him as cleanly as possible; you know that you won’t torture him for longer than what’s necessary. He can’t be allowed to shatter beyond repair. You can trust yourself, can’t you? Would it not be better to take matters into your own hands? _

_ Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t know!  _ Her claws dug into the meat of her

arm through the thick sleeves of her uniform.  _ I don’t want this! _

_ Of course you don’t! Everyone knows that the greater good is a hard path to follow. Stop pretending to be a martyr. _

_ I’m not, I just— _

_ I, I, I. Me, me, me. Selfish little girl. You ridicule your father for his weakness, but at the end of the day you’re no better. What a hypocrite. _

_ No, I— I don’t want to hurt him.  _

_ He’ll hurt anyway, won’t he? He’ll hurt more, if he’s allowed to remember. _

_ What? _

_ You heard them.  _ The little voice fairly crowed with triumph.  _ If Project Labyrinthia goes under,  _ **_everyone_ ** _ will remember. Including him. What is he hiding from, I wonder? What dark memories haunts his past? He won’t like being forced to remember that, will he? He might blame you for it. After all, you were the one too feeble to accept a simple little task. What a pathetic Shade you would make. _

__ “I—” She felt the weight of their combined stares. Her father looked anxious, but the Storyteller seemed… expectant. As though he somehow knew the choice she would make before she even made it.

“Yes, Eve?”

There were so many, many things that she wanted to say. She wanted to explain that Sir Barnham didn’t deserve the Story they’d planned for him. That it was cruel to punish him for being her friend, and crueler to expect her to stab him in the back with a smile. That nothing she was prepared to do would ever benefit either of them, if she could help it. That the only reason she allowed herself to stoop so low was to lift up the city she’d called home for over a decade. 

Not a single word made it past her lips; they lumped in her constricting throat, piling up until she couldn’t breathe. She choked, swallowing them down like the bitterest of medicines, and then managed to unclench her jaw long enough to force out the words they wanted to hear.

“I’ll do it.” 

* * *

“Burn her! Burn the witch!”

“Traitor to the Story! Destroy her!”

“All witches must be cast into the hellfire!”

The Courtroom was unbearably stifling, even without the long sleeves of her Inquisition uniform. When they had come for her, the Order had stripped her of both title and cloth; she wore the garments of a commoner, stained with the grime of her dungeon cell. She hadn’t raised a protest, knowing that it was an integral part of her punishment. Perhaps she had been the High Inquisitor, but now she was merely another accused. She was no better or worse than any other ill-fated woman to cross the Courtroom threshold. 

Eve climbed the portable stairs carefully, not wanting to risk a fall while encumbered with the long skirts. They made it hard to gauge where her feet were; the toe of her leather shoe caught one of the uppermost steps and she stumbled forward, unable to steady herself with bound wrists. The knight waiting at the summit caught her by the elbow, offering the smallest of human courtesies as he helped her regain her footing. 

“Easy, now,” he warned gruffly. The face beneath his anonymous helm was a middle-aged one, deep furrows cutting beneath his sharp cheekbones. She looked up at where his eyes would be, hidden by the golden owl’s pale gaze, wondering at the blatant show of kindness. In the midst of the Witch’s Court it was bold of him to speak to her, much less show any kindness at all. Did he see someone he knew in her young, tired visage—a daughter, perhaps, or a niece?

“Wait. I’ll be the one to do it.” The knight let go, looking over her shoulder towards the base of the stairs. She reached the platform and turned, looking as well to see Sir Barnham climbing steadily. He and the man at the top swapped places, the other descending to stand beside the captain manning the mechanism lever. There was a discerning jolt as the knights began to wheel the stairs towards the cage hanging high over the fire pit.

Eve stared straight ahead, unable to even attempt looking Sir Barnham in the eye. The unmitigated shame of what she done was too great; it swirled in her breast, mingling with the guilt that resided there. She was already unable to tell where one emotion stopped and the other began; they were an emulsion, separate and yet irrefutably combined.

The roaring crowd filled both her vision and her ears, drowning out all other noise, but she could no longer comprehend the insults being hurled at her. Her father was among the spectators; he pulled aside his hood, his bright irises shining more green than blue in the dim light. She wanted to call to him, but the words to describe what she felt didn’t make themselves readily available. He turned and vanished into the crowd; she could do nothing but watch as he left her behind. 

The air shimmered with heat above the pit; the cage’s bars wavered as she carefully stepped into its center. It swayed slightly as she held up her wrists, allowing him to remove the bindings. They were an added insult; the charges against her were not refutable. She’d never intended to fight back, and hadn’t given them reason to think she would. 

Sir Barnham’s hands were warm, even in the nearly unbearable heat. His calloused palms brushed the tips of her fingers as he took the bindings from her before shutting the cage door. Her wrists wanted rubbing, sore after their heavy burden, but she instead stepped forward and curled her fingers around the topmost bar. The cage tipped, chains rattling above her head.

“It wasn’t me, you know.” She spoke low enough that only he could ever hope to hear her. Her eyes met his, staring deep into the grey irises that studied her with such gentleness, even now. “It wasn’t me,” she repeated, not knowing exactly what it was she was trying to say. All that mattered to her in these last moments was that he didn’t know, wouldn’t have known, and that she  _ needed  _ to know he understood. 

“Eve.” His voice was quiet, but firm. It demanded nothing from her but honesty. And, to tell truth, she was so  _ tired  _ of lying to him. She wanted to be sincere for once, to have her words ring of integrity, not deceit. Out of everyone in the Courtroom, he was the one who deserved to know the truth—about her, the town, everything.

“I didn’t,” she insisted softly. She leaned forward, close enough that his breath caressed her parted lips. “It was Espella, not me.” His expression didn’t change. “Don’t be cross with her, Zacharias. She was only a child. She did it, but she didn’t know what she was doing.”

“It wasn’t her fault.”

“Exactly.” Eve sighed, relieved that he understood—she knew that he would, but…. He shook his head, leaning even closer until his head was nearly inside the cage. She froze, heart thumping as she waited for his next move; was he going to kiss her? Was this his final good-bye? No, it wasn’t: he passed her cheek, nose brushing the loose curls at her ear. 

“No, Eve. It wasn’t her fault.” His voice was rough, tickling the shell of her ear. “It was yours.”

“What?” Her breath caught in her chest, lungs burning. “N-no, I’ve already told you. It wasn’t me—”

“The fault is yours. You’re the eldest, after all. You were supposed to be looking after her; why weren’t you watching her?”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong! I—”

“Who rang the bell?” he asked, insistent.

“She did!”

“Who  _ rang  _ it?”

“She—Espella did it! I swear!”

“ _ Who ran the Bell _ ?”

“ _ Espella _ !” He paused, and the world fell silent. She could no longer hear the jeering crowd or the crackling flames; all that remained was his soft panting and the heavy thud of her heart.

“Wrong answer.” He pulled away as the cage closed, throwing her into instant and impenetrable darkness. Her mouth fell open to shout, to beg that he stay his hand a moment more, but it was too late. She was lost to the black surrounding her, muffled noise and hot air and hotter metal. Sweat slid down her spine and she gasped, suffocating in the heat. Dark shapes twisted before her like countless tendrils of smoke; she screwed her eyes closed, preferring a darkness she could control to one she couldn’t.

She remained stationary, but the world around her jarred. Weightless, she felt her feet leave the floor of the cage; with no choice but to wait for gravity to catch up, she felt the agonizing seconds tick by at a snail’s pace. Then she was falling, screeching despite herself as she braced for the prickly slap of hay against her skin.

It never came.

Panicking, she groped around her blindly and found nothing but darkness and heat, a burning heat that seared her right arm until she shrieked for help, for her papa, for  _ anyone _ . All at once, the terrifying realization overcame her: no one would come. She was alone, in pain, forsaken by a world that saw her only for what she was on the surface. Her last coherent thought was a desolate one:  _ this must be Hell. _

She opened her mouth to the thick yellow stench of brimstone, fire burning her lungs to ash as she screamed, and screamed, and screamed. 

“Miss Eve?  _ Miss Eve _ !” Foreign hands were grabbing at her, tormenting her; she shoved at them in her confusion and fear, nails biting and scratching in the unending darkness. “Ow!  _ Effin’ _ — It’s me, Miss! It’s Hannah!”

“Ha—Hann—” Eve forced her eyes open, choking on the words as stopped her assault. Every muscle ached, her lungs starving for fresh air. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, a cold sweat plastering her nightgown to her body.

“Come on, Miss. Sit up and gain your bearings.” Hannah helped her up and she curled against her trembling legs, stomach churning and heart hammering in her chest. Hannah put a soothing hand to her back and she flinched away, resting her head on her knees. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to be touched. The maid ignored her, instead fussing with the blankets she’d kicked off in her unconscious terror.

It was just another nightmare. She’d been long overdue for one. Normally she was too exhausted to dream, preferring to collapse onto her mattress for a few precious hours of sleep at the end of a long investigation. But stress always triggered the worst nightmares, and being drained of energy only made things harder.

“It’s alright, Miss Eve. You just sit there.” Hannah pulled away the bed curtains, giving her a better supply of air before fluffing her pillows. She was already dressed for bed, her frizzy hair loose around her shoulders and nightgown hanging loose around her legs. That, if nothing else, was proof of how late an hour it was; like most of the staff, she wasn’t often willing to bed down until well after midnight. 

“You was shrieking like a devil, you was—I thought you’d done fallen out of bed and hurt yourself. Seen it happen with Downstairs-Molly, you know; poor thing dislocated her shoulder when it got tangled up in the bedsheets. Nearly screamed down the whole kitchen.” 

“I—ah—” It was still beyond her power to speak, so she gave up. She would be useless until the adrenaline was able to leave her tightly wound muscles. Hannah flitted nervously about the bed, wanting to help and knowing from past experience that there was little she could do.

“You want I should fetch Mum?” she asked helplessly, adjusting the mattress for the third time. She was all but wringing her hands, thick brows furrowed so that they nearly met over her nose. “I ought to anyway; she’ll want to know that you ‘ent sleeping so well these nights, Miss. Got to report it, haven’t I?” 

Eve considered it. Mrs. Simmons was always perfect in situations like these; she was the best mix of both motherly and practical traits. But she didn’t want to be coddled by her housekeeper. She knew the real reason she’d had the nightmare—in fact, it was the same reason she’d not had a peaceful night’s rest since leaving the Audience Room.

_ This is my punishment for agreeing to help Cantabella and my father. It serves me right. _

“No,” she said, lifting her head high enough to rub at her eyes. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine, I just… had a bad dream.”

“You ought to  _ eat _ ,” Hannah encouraged. “Empty bellies make for bad nights, and you barely picked at your tea this evening. I’ll go now and fetch some warm bread from the kitchen; that’ll set you up ‘till breakfast.”

“No, Hannah.” The refusal didn’t slow her in the slightest.

“A slice of cake, then, and a mug of milk to wash it down.”

“No, thank you.”

“Fie, Miss! You should at least try to  _ drink _ somet—” 

“I said  _ no thank you _ .” The harsh tone was enough to silence her. Hannah blinked, surprised. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tch. I was only trying to help,” she replied at last, subdued. Guilt rose sharply like bile in the back of her throat. She turned onto her side so that it wouldn’t show on her face, her back to the door and legs bent beneath the sheet.

“I want to be left alone now. Good night.”

“Well… you want I should close the curtains?”

“No.” Eve shuddered, pressing her flushed cheek against the cool pillow. “It’s far too hot.”

“Then I won’t stir the fire before I turn in.” There was a brief pause, devoid of movement. She could feel Hannah watching her carefully and bit her lower lip until it ached, keeping perfectly still. She didn’t have to turn over to know that there was pity written across the older girl’s face, a fact that she both hated and loved. One strong hand gave her shoulder a final pat through the sheet, tucking it carefully around her before settling the thicker blanket over her hips. 

“Good night, Miss Eve,” she said gently. “Give a holler should you need something.” Hannah left in a crisp  _ swish _ of cotton skirts, finally leaving her to the solitude she craved. Still, Eve waited until she was sure the maid was gone before slowly rolling onto her back. She sighed at the wooden canopy, flickering dimly in the faint light from the glowing hearth.

_ Is this how it will be, these next six months? _

“Get it together,” she muttered to herself, pressing her eyes into their sockets with the heels of her palms. She would be lucky if she didn’t look like a zombie tomorrow, and that simply wasn’t acceptable. It was only a few hours until she would be standing before Labyrinthia in its entirety, riding in her place on the Storyteller’s float and watching the knights distribute the new Story— _ her  _ Story—to the townsfolk. 

The past week had been hell for her already nonexistent sleep schedule. She’d barely gotten enough to function on a normal level, which was damning enough. Either insomnia kept her lying awake in her bed for hours on end, or she was jarred out of a dead sleep by strange kaleidoscopes of dreams that she could barely remember. Already this one was slipping away too, leaving behind only the smoky impressions of a voice in her ear, crackling flames and her own insistent defense.

_ It wasn’t me! _

It was guilt, plain and simple. She’d accepted that offer against her better judgement, knowing the risks and the eventual consequences of it. Her conscience was now burdened with the full weight of that choice. Even worse was the knowledge that she was not only bringing herself down, but Sir Barnham as well. She knew that there was no other choice, but that didn’t stop her from feeling accountable.

Neither Cantabella nor her father seemed to share the emotion. At least, if they felt anything, they didn’t show it outwardly. And why would they? They weren’t the ones whose life was facing upheaval. She didn’t see Arthur moving to a new house in the middle of Labyrinthia. And she certainly didn’t see her father going before the entire city to act out a sham marriage.

Tomorrow, there would be no going back for any of them. The Story would be printed and distributed while the special hypnotic ink was still wet. Within the hour, everyone in Labyrinthia would know the news… including him.  _ What will he say?  _ she wondered, not for the first time.  _ What will he do? _

Given their respective schedules, it had been too easy to avoid him all week. She’d requested extra time away from her Inquisitor duties, claiming that they owed it to her after forcing her to go into town on her day off. She’d been granted an additional day; if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Cantabella was actually  _ indulging  _ her. 

It was far likelier that her father had a hand in it; she could see him heavily inciting Arthur to allow her this smallest of reprieves. She couldn’t stand his pity, but had to admit that his weakness for her did come in handy from time to time.

She’d been eternally thankful that the garrison counted Fridays among their “week-end” days. That meant she was allowed three full days without seeing hide nor hair of Sir Barnham. She heard the Court guard whispering to each other before about Sir Barnham’s hellish ‘remedial training’ sessions, and knew that he wasn’t making it easy on either the delinquent squires or their inattentive masters. 

Eve honestly didn’t know what to expect from him tomorrow; that dreaded Parade would change them both, no doubt, still… how would he react to the news? She knew of his little fan club and their single-minded devotion, but did his heart warm towards any of them?

He’d never spoken of any passing fancies or courtly crushes, either current or past. Then again, those were far from the type of conversations they had with one another. If he was soft on a girl, the High Inquisitor would be the last person in Labyrinthia to know it. 

The thought of him spurning a girl he loved to marry one he didn’t left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could only hope that her father had done his research. Surely he wouldn’t have agreed to use him as a test subject had he known of any prior connection.

Even with her doubts, she couldn’t picture her coworker having a solid relationship with any girl. The Order of Knights meant the world to him; he seemed more than willing to dedicate his life to it wholeheartedly and without regret. His duty to the garrison and his men overshadowed every other facet of his life, including his work at the Courthouse.

How would he view marriage in regards to that? Would the inclusion of a family be seen as little more than a hindrance in his eyes? She wasn’t sure if he was the family man type; he might spend all his time at the garrison, ignoring her completely outside of working hours. She would have gladly accepted that, but she couldn’t see Arthur sharing her feelings, not when she was supposed to be fostering some kind of deep emotional bond between them.

_ Sir Barnham….  _ She turned over onto her stomach, burying herself face first into the soft goose down of her pillow.  _ Please don’t hate me come the ‘morrow.  _ It sounded dangerously like some sort of prayer. A supplication to Saint Barnham, patron of knights and persecutor of witches.  _ I don’t like this any more than you do… please believe that. _

What was she supposed to say to him afterwards? Apologize for a Story she had no say in writing? Commit heresy by openly criticizing the Teller? Or was she just supposed to lie, to smile at him as though nothing on earth could please her more? Was it acceptable, as his fiancée, to congratulate him on his upcoming nuptials?

If anything, it was a blessing that she couldn’t blame him for what would transpire in the next six months. None of this was, or ever would be, his fault. She knew that she would die before she allowed even a shred of her anger to touch him. It was bad enough that she had to rage against her boss and her father, the only family she had left in the world. They were strawmen, stand-ins for the faceless government suits she wanted to grind to dust beneath her heel.

Sighing again, she scowled as she punched her pillow into a better shape. If only there was someone she could talk to about this mess! Baring her soul would have opened her to vulnerability, but she wouldn’t have minded so long as all the pent-up feelings inside of her were gone at the end. There were  _ options,  _ there always were, but none of the choices she could make felt like the right one.

Hannah would listen, and she’d try her best to understand, but a grounded soul like hers could never truly understand the fierce tumult that accompanied stormy emotions. Ditto for Mrs. Simmons, who was as rooted to terra firma as a person could be. The only other servant from the pre-Great Fire days was Mr. Weatherby, but he was more of a ‘companionable silence’ type of man. Her father was out of the question. And Sir Barnham… no, he could never be allowed to know all the things she wanted to tell him. 

Had she the energy, she might have crept silently to the stables. The calm, gentle cart horses were good company, and they seemed to enjoy it when she spoke quietly into their ears. It was a comfort to run her fingers over their velvet noses, to feel their soft breath and ticklish whiskers against her palm. But horses couldn’t talk back.

She didn’t want an animal who couldn’t understand her. And she didn’t need a therapist to tell her why she was sad. The hows and whys were one thing, but she didn’t care about those. What she wanted… what she craved more than anything else in the world… was another face. Someone who would sympathize with her pain, who would hold her when she cried. A confidante, a… a companion.

A friend.

Her eyes burned, but the tears she hoped for never came. She closed them in disappointment, listening to the sounds of night beyond her lonely bed. The last of the summer frogs were croaking in the lake, serenading the stars. Soon, the cold weather would force them to burrow into the mud and wait for spring. Did they miss the night sky, curled beneath their warm, muddy canopies?

What would it be like, sleeping through an entire season? To slumber while everything shriveled and died, only to awaken when the world was green?  _ If only that were me.  _ She fisted the blankets in her scarred hand, pressing the cloth to her mouth and wishing that she wouldn’t wake with the dawn.  _ If I could only know. _


	6. Chapter V

It should have rained.

Had there been any justice at all in this world, water should have poured from the heavens without pause. Fierce, rapid lightning should have illuminated the sky, the resounding thunder shaking the glass panes in every house on North Parade Avenue. The city should have rocked beneath an endless roaring tempest, and even then it still wouldn’t have been enough to match the raging howl in her breast.

As it was, no one could have asked for a better Parade day. The sky was a vibrant blue, endless azure outlined by the garrison’s thick stone walls. It was so gleaming and lovely that no one could stand to look at it for more than a few moments without shading their eyes against its brilliance.

The sweetest haze hung low over the farthest horizon, suggesting the possibility of clouds. But even that was no match for the sun’s broad rays. A flaming ball above the eastern seascape, it covered everything in a warmth and happiness. Its benevolence seemed to offer one final glimpse of a dying summer, the last tantalizing taste before the arrival of an inevitable autumn.

The breeze caressed Eve as she made her way to the Storyteller’s carriage; it lifted her hair, heavy enough to make itself known but not so strong that the ornate hangings on either side of the throne were in danger from the braziers. The horses had already been harnessed to the carriage, and their driver was busily adjusting the straps and making sure that the animals would be comfortable pulling the heavy structure.

She nodded at the driver as she passed, quickly climbing the wooden platform and crossing the narrow gap to land lightly on the carriage. A knight was already there, lighting the heavy braziers on either side and making sure that they would stay lit throughout the entire Parade.

“G’morning, milady,” he greeted when he noticed her, voice rough with smoke. His helm was down, hiding his eyes from her, but beneath the pointed beak his mouth was an amicable smile.

“Good morning,” she replied politely, although to her it seemed anything but. This was the day she’d dreaded, and now that it was here she found herself no more prepared for it than she’d been the day she sat in the Audience Room. Her fate had been outlined in detail; her life, as she knew it, was ending. In one month, she would be walking down the aisle to marry a man she didn’t love. In six months more, she’d be expected to rip out his heart and place it at the Storyteller’s feet.

If the knight noticed her distress, he said nothing. She doubted he noticed much about her at all; his task was to ready the carriage for the Storyteller, and he performed it with effective solemnity. The Parade determined Labyrinthia’s future, and so it must be perfect. No one was allowed to slack off, not this day.

The knight gave the brazier coals one last stir, ensuring a good flame before tightening one of the fastenings on a loose curtain. His gauntlets brushed unseen dust from the green padded throne, straightened the heavy golden table, threw a loose feather over the back railing. Her eyes followed his, taking note of everything he lingered over and wishing he’d hurry it up.

With one final nod he took his leave, descending the stairs with jarring metallic thuds and running off to find his place in the procession. She waited until he was gone before taking the sheaf of paper she carried from the fold of her cloak. As High Inquisitor and the Storyteller’s second in command, she had to at least feign joy in the appearance of each new chapter. It was her duty to announce the release; her signal notified the knights of when to throw the Story to the gathered citizens.

The ink was still wet, glistening in the sun and smudged from where they’d been bound together. The heady fragrance, part floral and part chemical, wafted from the thick parchment to fill her head. She blanched, fighting an unforeseen wave of nausea at the cloying, almost overpowering scent.

The ink’s smell was never so intense in the Shade warehouse. When newly made the scent was light and refreshing—less formaldehyde, more of a rose-y chrysanthemum. However, to reach full potency it had to set for nearly twenty-four hours, in a room specially built for that very purpose. It gained strength in a remarkably short amount of time, until one whiff of concentrated product could make even the toughest man’s eyes water uncontrollably. 

That was the reason her father had advised that all Shades be equipped with ventilation masks, even if they didn’t work directly in the processing room. Everyone—including her—also had to take a daily oral antidote that he’d created to counterbalance the ink’s psychoactive effects. The townspeople, however, were fine; the ink dissipated in the air, spreading throughout Labyrinthia and gone entirely within a few weeks. It's only residue was a lingering, always present scent.

_ Beneath the blue canopy of sky, the exultant Storyteller foretold of the magnificent union between his High Inquisitor and the leader of the Order— _

She looked away, unwilling to read anything more. No matter how often she stared at the words, eyes glazing, they were just as upsetting as the first time she’d read them. It was the Storyteller’s usual style, flowery prose and cryptic rhymes. Nothing about it should have been unsettling, and yet every time she was mentioned she felt a twist in her gut that had nothing to do with excitement.

“ _ Attention _ !” All movement around the carriage ceased immediately. Eve looked up despite herself, blinking against the sun to see the knights all turned expectantly towards the Audience Room’s grand staircase. The Captain of the Guard stood at the base of the stairs, his round eyes surveying the crowd. They narrowed, as if daring a single knight to even so much as breathe without permission.

“Salute your Storyteller!” he called, shoulders thrown back and voice booming as it bounced between the walls.

“All hail the Storyteller!” There was a deafening sound of several hundred metal fists meeting several hundred breastplates, all nearly simultaneously. “All hail His Story!” Eve copied their movements, but it was only for show, devoid of any heart.

Arthur descended the stairs slowly, escorted by Sir Barnham. To the garrison’s ignorant, all-praising eyes he must have seemed stately and honorable, lacking grace but making up for it with presence. She alone noticed the way he favored his right side with the slightest of limps, his visible eye twitching and jaw clenched with repressed pain as he painstakingly made his way to the carriage. 

“Good morning, Storyteller.” She bowed from the waist as he climbed the stairs, holding onto one of the owl statues until he could steady himself.

“Good morning, High Inquisitor Darklaw.” He passed her, settling onto his throne with a muffled sigh and placing the Historia Labyrinthia on the table before him. All the while, she was aware of his piercing gaze, his eyes burning a hole between her shoulder blades. Hoot swooped in from the sky, wings fluttering as he landed on the perch beside his master’s throne. Arthur gently stroked his breast feathers, his free hand fingering the stylish quill on his lap.

“Today’s the day,” he said lightly. A strained note in his voice suggested that his levity was as forced as her own empty smile.

“Indeed, sir.” She watched the knights scramble to finish their own preparations. The flag bearers streamed from the carriage house, some on foot and others on horseback; they fought the breeze, aiding one another as best they could while attempting to straighten their own banners. Squires in their carefully polished armor tripped over each other, nearly reaching a dead sprint as they raced to take their places behind the carriage.

The knights in charge of passing out the chapter were known as the Story’s Guard. It was considered a high honor to be chosen for their ranks; it meant that the knight in question was counted among the most loyal and trustworthy of all their fellows in the garrison. They were the first to lay hands upon the Story, and had to be trusted not to peek or tamper with the hallowed pages.

They moved in tight parallel lines on either side of the carriage, messenger bags bulging beneath their green cloaks. Their Captain advised them from horseback, clearing a path and arguing with the other captains, who were also trying to get  _ their  _ men in line. She could hear no individual conversation, but the air was rich with the sound of many voices speaking over one another as they readied the procession.

“You are prepared, then?” The Storyteller’s voice cut through her concentration. “For what will happen?”  _ Could anyone be truly ready for something like this _ ? she thought. There didn’t seem to be a ready answer. She kept her head carefully turned, unwilling to let him see traces of hesitation on her face. “Eve?” he prompted, speaking lowly enough that no one would overhear the use of her true name.

“I am ready… to do what I must.” For the moment, that seemed to be the most dignified response. Her breath caught as Sir Barnham rode around the side of the carriage; his gaze passed them over easily as he steered his white mount along the lines of men. His mouth was a thin, studious line, head moving slowly as he seemed to count the gathered men.

Suddenly, his arm shot out and he snapped, the sound somehow audible even over the tumult of voices and horses and metal. He pointed to where one man was slightly askew compared to his neighbors; a raw shout from his Captain, along with a few prodding elbows, had the poor soul back in line with the rest. Satisfied, he rode on towards the head of the procession, his horse fairly jingling with heraldry.

“As are we all,” Arthur replied, clearly at ease with her answer. She barely heard him, her eyes locked on the man who’s world was about to be shaken to its foundations. He seemed so innocent at the moment, so unsuspecting; the only concerns on his mind were of his duty, the art of keeping a few hundred men in perfect formation.

Behind them the orchestra let out their first warm-up, a disjointed flurry of sour notes. She heard an undercurrent of unrest beneath the noise, muttered expressions from those standing in nearest proximity. The pages too young to march in the procession were herded towards the gate by one of the middle-aged captains, who rubbed one ear with a scowl as he passed the trumpeters.

Far ahead of them, the gate creaked open and the Captain of the Guard slipped out, followed quickly by his squadrons. It was their job to keep the crowds in line, pinpointing any troublemakers and taking care of them before the procession had time to reach their appointed areas. The Captain was ever vigilant about crowd control, and did his job well enough that it had been over a year since an incident interrupted the Parade.

Even then, the perpetrator hadn’t been human, but animal. A street dog had run from an alleyway and found itself nose to nose with a very large, very startled white horse. The poor thing had been spooked beyond reason; her most vibrant memory of that day was the blinding flash of Sir Barnham’s armor, catching the light as his mount reared. He’d fallen from the horse but, with feet planted firmly in the stirrups at the time, he’d not been thrown clean off. One ankle had become tangled in the reins.

The garrison had chased that horse for  _ hours _ , around and around the Square, across Main Street, and through North Parade Avenue at least twice. It was nearly noontide when they managed to calm it enough to untangle a very battered, bruised Sir Barnham from the twisted saddle.

It was a blessing that Sir Barnham hadn’t broken his ankle—or worse, his skull. His armor had protected him from the worst of the damage; the metal was so dented in spots that the garrison armor smiths had given up, stating that the integrity of the metal would be ruined if they tried to hammer it all out.  _ That  _ hadn’t made for a happy Leader of the Order, who’d been forced to commission new pieces and replace was unfit to be worn.

An involuntary smile twitched on her lips as she remembered how he’d staggered after being helped upright by three able-bodied men, half-dazed with being knocked about and swearing up a storm. By the time they’d managed to drag him across town to the alchemist, he’d cursed his horse, his men, and every dog in Labyrinthia.

Even her father hadn’t been able to hide a smile at the way he snarled, glowing with embarrassment and threatening to hang every man who’d been unable to get him from his horse within the hour. He’d sworn off dogs forever, declaring that he’d never own one for as long as he lived. And then the very next week he’d shown up to work in possession of a feisty white puppy, the two of them completely unrepentant.

She’d been poised to mock his lack of resolve. She’d even prepared a snide comment or two about his quickness to overcome a grudge. But, after being a firsthand witness to the pains he’d taken with Constantine those first few months, she’d had no choice but to admire his softheartedness.

After the Wild Ride, he could have stomped about town kicking at every dog unfortunate enough to cross his path. That sort of vindictive behavior wouldn’t have surprised her, especially when the Labyrinthians had made sure to let him know they wouldn’t forget his humiliating experience anytime soon. The terrible,  _ hilarious  _ nickname they gave him still made his ears darken and eyes narrow to this day.

But instead of taking out his anger on them, he instead adopted a dog of his own and took to raising it like his own child. The surprisingly cute mutt had become an integral part of his life; he’d commissioned a portrait of the two of them from the Court Illustrator that hung on his board at work. The pup even had its own little bed inside one of his desk drawers, for god’s sake!

_Hopefully he’ll treat me with the same attitude,_ she couldn’t help but think. It he was willing to forgive canines for existing, surely it wouldn’t take him long to forgive her for everything she was about to do. _It’s not even me he should be angry with, not at first,_ she added obstinately. _After all, I don’t write the stupid Story._ It was the truth, but it did little to help her mood. 

“Knights!  _ Fall in _ !” The command was the official precursor to the Parade. It’s iteration meant that everyone had exactly sixty seconds to find their places and be ready to march. She squared her shoulders, feeling the familiar mask slide easily and firmly into place. Clearing her throat, she plastered what she hoped was an outgoing, jubilant smile on her face. Arthur’s quill scratched on the parchment behind her; it took all that she could not to turn her head and look at him directly.

_ What does he write, anyway?  _ She had no way of knowing.  _ Does he take notes on the townsfolk while we’re passing through?  _ she wondered. It wouldn’t have surprised her. Unless it was Parade day, he was never on the island. He stayed in his London flat, working with Labrelum and only showing his face when he was needed.

When she was being sympathetic, the empty tower was too much for the old man to face alone. When she wasn’t, he was too greedy a businessman to stay away from his company for more than a few days. He knew nothing of the world he’d created past its gleaming surface; would he be surprised if he knew what she knew about the true nature of things?

“Orchestra, begin!” The band came alive with the traditional Parade march, warming up the rest of the procession with the first preliminary stanzas. The knights ahead of the carriage shifted amongst themselves, some already matching their feet to the rhythm while others found the best grip for the swords they held aloft. Far, far head of her, Sir Barnham’s spine was even straighter than her own as he sat proudly at the head of the Parade.

“Storyteller, sir.” One of the captains rode aside the carriage, steadying his horse. “Are we ready?” It was a purely ceremonial question; of course they were ready. But he was their lord and master; no one would move until he gave the order. Arthur didn’t speak, instead offering a noble bow from the shoulders. The captain saluted, galloping to the front of the line and relaying the go-ahead to his superior.

Sir Barnham’s gauntlet rose, signaling to the gatehouse. The flag bearers on either side of his horse squared their shoulders, raising their banners as the heavy doors began to open with a creak. The machinery shuddered as wood met both sides of the stone wall. Picking up the reigns, he flicked his wrists; the horse responded instantly, setting a measured pace for the men to follow.

“ _ Forward march _ !”

The line shuddered forward inch by inch until they were rolling. There was one large jolt as they hit the drawbridge; it would have unseated her, had her entire body not been braced against it. Arthur grunted behind her, Hoot flapping in protest, but they both settled quickly enough as the carriage rolled through the gatehouse and beneath the Great Archive’s looming shadow.

She heard the first thrilled cheers as Sir Barnham rounded the corner onto North Parade Avenue. A flurry of petals spiraled into the air, carried on the cross breeze between the narrow buildings. In a few short moments the carriage would be the center of attention.

Her mouth went dry and she shivered, but this was no time to give into her emotions. If the citizens saw her despair, they might think that the newest chapter of the Story was about something dreadful: famine, looming threats of illness, witch crimes…. But she wasn’t supposed to know the contents of the new chapter; even the High Inquisitor wasn’t allowed to peek before the grand reveal. 

Rich or poor, nobleman or peasant: every life was equal in the eyes of the Storyteller. That meant they all read the Story at the same time. Lady Darklaw was a citizen of Labyrinthia, and subject to the same rules as everyone else. Being High Inquisitor didn’t make her above the law, at least not where the town’s highest rules were concerned. 

The float made its way onto North Parade Avenue, the driver carefully guiding it between the rows of houses. The crowds were gathered on the other side of an elliptical arch spanning the length of the street; she could hear their approving roar become a hoarse screech of exultation at the mere sight of their Storyteller.

They crowded on either side of the avenue, jostling one another in their efforts to better see the procession. Bolder ones quarreled openly with the knights as they were shoved, sometimes forcibly, back into line. They leaned from upper story windows, waving and hollering at the top of their lungs as they threw down basket after basket of the delicate pink petals. As they approached, she could hear a few of the louder voices rising above the clamor.

“It’s the Storyteller!”

“Look at my little boy! Thank you so much for saving him, Storyteller!”

“Please give us another wonderful Story!” 

There were people—mostly women—calling to Sir Barnham as well. She spotted two youngish knights trying rather unsuccessfully to keep a small mob of young ladies out of the street. In their efforts to get as close as possible to the object of their affections, they were forced to fight tooth and nail against the strong arms holding them back. Gloved hands, clutches, and even a parasol or two battered the poor lads in a very unladylike manner.

“Oh, my handsome knight! Steal me away on your white horse!”

“I think I can see a bit of his wrist—right there, do you see it?”

“He wooked at me! My sweet Zack-ums wooked at me!”

“He did not, you’re too short! He was looking at  _ me _ !”

Eve watched him closely, waiting for a sign that he even noticed these boisterous attentions. But, as always, his head didn’t so much as tilt in their direction. He passed by stoically, leaving a trail of swooning maidens in his wake. The girls fell away in awed disappointment, leaving their captors battered but none the worse for wear. They were too starstruck to even hear the heavy scolding, heaving lovelorn sighs as they stared after their heartthrob. 

Arthur seemed just as apathetic towards the veneration being directed at him. He kept the pretense of his eternal writing as they slowly drove down the avenue, his quill scratching across page after page. No one noticed that he wasn’t paying them any mind, their hands outstretched and faces alight with ecstatic wonder at the sight of their Creator.

It was nearing time. The Story’s Guard would be awaiting her signal; they had to throw the first round of papers into the crowd before the float turned the corner. Her fist clenched around the sheaf of paper, claws digging into the thick parchment. She glanced down, reading the words and not retaining a single one.

She could feel Arthur’s attention on her. He was just as aware of the passing seconds as she; if she hesitated now, it would throw off the Parade’s sense of order. Everyone, from the Guard to the townsfolk, would realize that something was amiss. She had to throw the Story to the crowd, and soon.

“P—peo—” Her voice didn’t want to function properly, squeaking rather than ringing. She gulped down her trepidation, taking a few deep, steadying breaths before trying once more. “P-People of Labyrinthia!” There, that was  _ much _ better. She sounded almost normal.

The crowd reached its zenith, knowing what was to come by the way she stepped forward. Even if they couldn’t hear her well with their neighbors cheering in their ears, they’d been to enough Parades by now to recognize the format. Their clasping hands grabbed at the air, reaching for invisible pages as they begged her for their Story.

The first turn was just ahead: it was now or never.  _ You will do this.  _ She held her head high, the smile tight on her face. It hurt her cheeks, but she had to keep the expression while drawing attention to herself.  _ You have no choice. _

“People of Labyrinthia!” she repeated, holding the pages aloft. They fluttered in the breeze, pale petals floating around her like snow. The crowd surged, waves of excitement palpable enough that she could feel them where she stood. “Behold your new Story!”

She swept her arm in a large arc over her head, releasing the pages onto the wind. Immediately she wanted to catch them back, but it was too late. They swirled high on the breeze, wet ink catching the morning light as they drifted to either side of the float. The Story’s Guard, seeing her signal, reached into their bags. Fistful after fistful of pages flew into the air, and the telltale aroma of ink filled the avenue.

The tallest citizens managed to grab first pick, their smaller counterparts leaping about the place like crickets in their effort to snag a page. Everyone squealed in excitement, their fingers smudged with ink as they held their prizes aloft. Parents read to their children, some too young to understand anything. Younger adults read quickly to the elder ones, tongues tripping over the long sentences.

Eve waited with bated breath, watching countless mouths move as they devoured the words. A tension coiled tight in her stomach; it seemed to hang in the air all around, pressing against her chest until she couldn’t breathe. She could do nothing but stand in place, counting the minutes and dreading what she knew would inevitably happen.

They came to the first corner, and she found herself foolishly beginning to hope. There were no outcries, no shocked gasps… not even an exclamation of disbelief. Perhaps… perhaps they might read the Story, accept it without a word, and there would be no consequences whatsoever beyond what she would face with Sir Barnham. For one endless, wonderful moment, it seemed as though  _ nothing  _ would happen.

And then it did.

She felt the crowd’s momentum change, and the first strings holding the unbearable tension steady began to tear asunder. A hush, quiet and deadly as a serpent, slithered through the crowd. A chorus of whispers arose in its wake, crackling like dry leaves in a brush fire. 

Suddenly, their eyes were no longer for the weaver of their Story. She felt them on her, boring into her exposed, vulnerable body. Her cheeks burned, smile wavering as she stared straight ahead, willing their gaping visages to blur in her peripherals.

They rounded the corner, and the next wave of pages filled the air. The townsfolk here were no less hungry for news, more scanning the pages than reading them. There was a moment when the words sank in, the anticipation on their faces morphing into blatant surprise. Their eyes then found her, riding at the center of attention, and they started that inescapable  _ whispering. _

At this point, the knights marching ahead of the float had sensed the crowd’s mood change. She saw one side guard quickly bend, never breaking stride as he scooped up a page before his captain saw him break rank. She marveled at the man’s boldness; he knew that High Inquisitor rode behind him and could see every move. Perhaps he thought her too focused on the Parade, as she undoubtedly should be. 

He read the page as he walked, head casually bent as though looking at his feet. She watched him in dismay as he stopped dead in his tracks; only a sharp prod in the kidneys from the knight behind him kept him going. Her throat tightened as she watched him lean to the left, whispering sharply in the area where his neighbor’s ear would be beneath the helmet. The knight on the left turned his head, mouth falling open in shock; he tapped the man on  _ his  _ left, passing the message along as quickly as possible.

Eve literally watched the news spread through the upper ranks, broken only where the float kept the squadrons from conversing. They all hissed among themselves, the lines wavering as they bent towards each other, taking their attention away from the Parade. The Captains sensed that something was amiss, but from their horseback vantage points had no way of knowing  _ what _ . But that didn’t stop them from glaring at their men until the platoons fell back into solemn order, silent once more as they made their way onto the Square. 

The Square was empty; the Captain of the Guard would not permit anyone to bother the Storyteller, especially after a Parade. The garrison would converge on the grassy area around the float, with a few knights employed with keeping the crowds at bay beyond the arches.

None of the knights could see the bell tower, hidden beneath its Vantablack death shroud. They didn’t notice its shadow falling across their faces as they lined up for the post-Parade headcount. Only she, Arthur, and her father knew of its existence; all three of them avoided looking directly at it whenever they were in the Square. It was impossible to ignore, but Eve felt that it could never hold sway over her again so long as she made sure not to stare. 

For the first time in what seemed like ages, she looked through the crowd in search of her father. Even from a distance, it wasn’t hard to spot him; as one of the tallest men in Labyrinthia, he had the unfortunate habit of looming over others without meaning to.

She found him near the archway leading from the Square to his street. From her position on the float, she could barely see the crown of his butler’s head, standing beside him in the crowd. Young Jean was reading the Chapter to him, effectively soaking in the poison herself without a single clue. He nodded, pretending to listen as her eyes trailed down the page. He looked appropriately shocked, brows arched high above his soft eyes.

As she watched, his gaze rose to meet hers. Her heart trembled and she wished… she didn’t  _ know _ what she wished. For an end to the fighting? She was still upset with him, angry that he’d locked away her mother’s memory and associated with those… those homespun whores that all but draped themselves over him in the street. 

But, heartbroken as she was, a part of her still craved something from him that she’d not felt in a long time. He was always so busy with the town, working on new medicines and research while tending to the townsfolk’s needs. She wished that she were small again, small enough for him to lift and cradle the way he used to when life was happier, simpler. She wanted him to come, to speak to her without that ‘woe is me’ frown.

He nodded to her civilly, clearly attempting a pleasant expression. It looked more like someone had just wrenched his arm. That was all he could muster; he turned, slowly making his way home with Jean trotting obediently at his heels. Other citizens began dropping from the crowd as well, but more stayed and continued to stare at her, talking behind their hands. The Parade hadn’t been over five whole minutes, and already the air was thick with gossip.

She felt, rather than saw, the heart-stricken scowls of Sir Barnham’s fan club. They wouldn’t openly face her, of course—any unorthodoxy they felt towards the Story would be kept locked in their hearts, never spoken aloud.  _ After all,  _ she thought cynically,  _ we wouldn’t want to make Zack-ums angry. Still, they might have attempted  _ **_some_ ** _ sacrilege. It would have given them some good data,  _ she added with a hint of sarcasm.

A commotion to her left startled her. Headcount over, the knights had swarmed around Sir Barnham’s horse. Already they were crowding the poor creature, reaching up for him and resting their gauntlets wherever they could find a spare inch of metal on his armor. The horse snorted irritably, pawing the ground as it found itself surrounded by raucous men.

Sir Barnham calmed it with a hand on its neck, barking orders at the men and forcing them to back up before dismounting. Eve watched, powerless; it was like observing a train wreck happen in real time. The knights piled upon their leader, shaking his hands and upsetting the shining helmet as they clapped on his shoulders, his back, his skull.

He shoved at them, clearly not understanding the felicitations being thrown his way. He may have thought them mocking, or playful; maybe he assumed they were riding the crowd’s leftover high, still excited at the release of the new Story. He raised his helm, pushing the shoulders of the nearest ones as he made some offhand comment she couldn’t hear.

A lanky pageboy shoved his way through the crowd, tugging at Barnham’s green cloak when he was close enough to grab a handful of fabric. His mouth moved urgently; it was clear he was raising his voice in an effort to be heard over the gruffer tones of grown men. A much larger knight pushed him aside and he stumbled, arms raised to balance himself. Green and gold flashed on his right arm.

_ That’s Sir Barnham’s page,  _ she realized with a start. There was a single paper fisted in his gauntlet. Desperate, he tugged hard enough on the cloak that he choked his master, the latter’s head snapping back as it held fast around his neck. The knights fell apart as he lurched, coughing heavily.

He whirled on the boy, gesturing angrily only to have the paper thrust at his face. Scowling, he rubbed his neck and read through impatiently, lips already parted to tell the lad off. She watched with growing despair as his jaw went slack, brows furrowing as he finally read the Story that bore his name.

The page fluttered from his hand.

Her heart clenched as he thumped the lad on the breastplate with the back of his hand, his teeth clenched as he hissed something unintelligible. The page shook his head vehemently, one hand on his helmet to keep it from going lopsided with the effort. He pointed at the paper on the ground between them, chattering rapidly.

At first, the other knights continued to shake and pat him, still smiling in their celebration. But as the stormy expression on Sir Barnham’s face darkened, they began to falter and back away. Only the pageboy seemed unaffected, his mouth still moving even though that same scowl had made more than one accused criminal tremble on the stand. 

All at once Sir Barnham pushed him aside, looking around the Square like a man possessed. What he was searching for became clear when he dove for another page, stumbling over his boots in his effort. He read it swiftly, mouth moving and fists crinkling the parchment.

With an angry cry he threw it away, grabbing another from midair and going through the same motions. Then again, scooping two from the ground and holding one in each hand. Each page was thoroughly read, as though he expected the words to magically change at any moment.

Finally he stopped, swaying in place with pages scattering from his loosened fingers. The knights watched him, made somber by his less than ideal reaction to the Story. The page ran to pick up the papers he dropped, folding them in a neat series of lines before tucking them into his breastplate for safekeeping. He drew close to his master, the tilt of his head suggesting a question, but was waved away without a word.

“Hmm.  _ Interesting _ .” Arthur chuckled, his quill scribbling over the page. She could think of no reply to his mirth, her heart sinking in a way that she couldn’t neither recognize nor label. This was the outcome she had expected. He was no more in love with her than she was with him.

But if that was so, then… what was this stabbing pain in her chest?

Sir Barnham raised his eyes, meeting hers across the Square. He stared openly at her as if seeing her for the first time, mouth open and hands hanging loosely at his sides. He looked helpless and utterly confused; he wouldn’t have been able to manage a more terrible countenance if she’d killed Constantine in front of him without a shred of remorse.

Eve had never seen that look on his face before, and she didn’t like it one bit. Sir Barnham was intelligent and powerful, not lost and defenseless.  _ I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.  _ Did her apology shine in her eyes the way dejection gleamed in his? Could he see the same hopelessness he felt in her frown? Or was he too affected to care, lost in the injustice of having one’s life decided for them by a piece of paper?

He shook his head, but not at her; he was fighting against whatever thoughts ran through his mind. Turning on his heel, he scattered the crowd of duly puzzled knights and stormed in the direction of the garrison without a word. The pageboy hurried after him, pausing only to grab the white horses reins and urge it to follow. The other knights picked up the dissipating crowd’s whisper; she pretended not to notice their furtive glances.

“You know—” Arthur began, and suddenly even the sound of his voice was too much. She grabbed one of the golden owl decorations, using it as a handhold to swing herself down until she was low enough to drop safely from the float. “High Inquisitor Darklaw?” The Storyteller leaned in his seat, stretching his neck to look at her over the table.

“I have something that I want to take care of,” she lied, waving away his concern. “I’ll make my own way back.” He nodded and she went in the opposite direction from the garrison, finding one of the marked Shade caches in a secluded nook. The cloak of invisibility slid over her head and she melted into the shadows, wishing—not for the first time—that she could disappear from her real life just as easily.

* * *

She’d meant to go home, but after aimlessly wandering around Labyrinthia for what felt like hours she found herself back in the Square. She stored the cloak back in the Shade cache, obliging her aching legs by taking a seat on the iron bench. The grass beneath her feet was still green, not yet surrendered to the baked brown color of autumn and winter.

The Square was a pleasant enough place to sit, once the sun wasn’t directly overhead. The bench had been placed after the Legendary Fire, so it was untouched by the mark of flame. She supposed that, to the Labyrinthians, it was probably a very cheerful place to relax during the day. But for her, the Square still held the ghost of melancholy that seemed to haunt her father. She couldn’t help but come here every time her mind was burdened.

Of course, she didn’t need a Freudian answer to tell her  _ why _ that was so. It was enough that she felt safe in her sadness while she lingered here, seated alone with her head turned to ignore the fluttering black cloth. Sadness and pain were allowed here; she didn’t have to be Darklaw, able to feel nothing beyond righteous duty and disdain for witchkind.

No one passing by the Square was bold enough to speak to her directly, but she felt their curious gazes as they hurried about their business. Some of the housewives, gathered in small clumps as they waited their turn at the well, offered something close to an encouraging smile. She ignored them, or tried to at least, keeping her head down and eyes on the shadows that inched slowly over the grass.

She had no idea how long she sat there, stewing in her own misery. Her cheeks were warm, flushed with sunshine, and the crown of her head was tender to its heat. If she stayed out much longer, she’d be burnt to a crisp. The best thing to do would be to return home, but she didn’t want to leave the bench.  _ Back to work, then.  _ No… she  _ really _ didn’t want to leave the bench.

Sir Barnham’s face floated in her mind every time it began to wander. She couldn’t make herself forget the way he’d stared at her, the look of abject horror in his eyes when he realized that they were now bound for life, tied together for what he thought would be eternity…. She felt awful—worse than awful. If she was sunburned from sitting here, it would be yet another part of her punishment for ever agreeing to go along with this hellish plan.

“Lady Darklaw.” Her heart jumped in her chest, but thankfully she was too in control of her outwardly appearance to embarrass herself by being visibly startled.  _ Damn!? Damn!  _ She’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d tuned out the world around her. Now she had to pay the price.

The very man she’d been thinking about stood before her, unwittingly blocking her escape from the bench. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt; his cheeks were darkened in a heavy blush, eyes flitting everywhere in an attempt to avoid landing on her face.

“Sir Barnham.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d somehow given life to all the pent-up screams that had been building in her chest for the past week. “Do you need something?”

“I think—that is to say, I believe we should—what I mean is—do you have a moment?” He was uncharacteristically floundering, his usually glib speech punctuated with stutters and missteps. A conversation was the very last thing she wanted to have, especially if he was involved. And yet she couldn’t find it within herself to send him away.

“I—”  _ God, it must be contagious.  _ She motioned to the empty space on the bench beside her. “…Have a seat, by all means.”

“No! I-I mean… no thank you.” His expression said everything he couldn’t; clearly, the thought of sitting beside her made him physically ill. “I have no wish to intrude upon your p-privacy,” he stammered. “I will not stay any longer than need be.”

“It wouldn’t be—”

“In truth, I was headed for the courier’s office.” He really wasn’t in his normal frame of mind; it wasn’t like him to interrupt her mid-sentence. “I was not surprised in the lightest when you didn’t show up to the Courthouse following the Parade. Circumstances as they are, I took the liberty of writing this letter, which I had intended to be included in the evening post.”

“I see.” She held out her hand expectantly. “You’re welcome to deliver the letter personally. I commend you for saving a courier the trouble.” It wasn’t like her to encourage cowardice, but in this matter she was just as spineless. Reading a letter presented a much easier option than facing him head-on, and she could even respond in kind. Maybe their entire marriage could be a series of notes, with poor Ms. Mailer as the go-between.

“No, ‘tis not what I meant,” he protested weakly. “When I saw you sitting here, I realized that my feel—my wish—” He stopped, composed himself, and tried again. “I realized that it would be more respectful to address you in person. So… now I will speak on the matter.”

She waited for him to do so, but no words came. A few times his mouth opened, poised as if to say something, but each time it again closed. He looked at her helplessly and she stared back, suffering in the terse silence that stretched paper thin between them. There was no assistance she could offer; no words came readily to mind.  _ I’m begging you, sir,  _ she pleaded mentally.  _ I don’t know how to react to that expression; either say what you came to say, or post the damn letter and leave me in peace.  _ **_Please_ ** _. _

A group of youths around their own age passed near the bench, gawking openly. They didn’t bother trying to hide their loud whispers, nudging and pointing. Sir Barnham winced, rubbing the back of his head with a sigh. 

“I suppose that our every move will now be of public interest,” he grumbled.  _ At least he doesn’t seem any more thrilled about that than I am,  _ she noted thankfully. They were already the subject of furtive gossip; rumors were bound to rise anywhere an unmarried man and woman were in constant close proximity. She’d heard it all: secret liaisons, Courtroom trysts, rendezvous in the forest. Half the time, she was already sharing his bed.

But this was different. Now every public meeting, each order, every last idle word would be scrutinized in meticulous detail. She wouldn’t be able to breathe in his direction without it being reported on by at least three ‘verified sources’. If there was any reason to look forward to the wedding, it would be to put an end to the rumor mill.

_ Wedding? My wedding… I’m going to have a wedding. I’m going to be married. Oh, God. I’m going to marry him in a month, that’s only four weeks— _

“Milady.” He shifted nervously from one foot to the other as he stood before her. This was as unguarded as she’d ever seen him before. Normally he was so calm, so comfortable being around her. He’d never hesitated to speak his mind to her before, even if it meant disagreeing with her opinion. But now he was second-guessing himself, and she had no way of reassuring him.

It  _ hurt  _ to see this new gulf arise between them, to know where it came from and to understand what it meant. She had wanted to be his friend, but now everything had changed. No longer could he be categorized as an acquaintance. He was her fiancé, and soon to be her husband. Even if he forgot once the experiment was over, she wouldn’t; their relationship could never go back to what it was.

“Yes?” He took a deep breath, eyes closed and head bowed. She waited, trying to keep her heartbeat under control as he readied himself.

“I understand that things will be difficult at first.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I know that I can only speak for myself, but I feel safe in assuming that the feelings we have towards one another are not what—what are normally present in two who are… who are  _ joined  _ in such a manner as we will soon be.” God, he was really tripping over himself; he couldn’t even say ‘marriage’ without breaking into a sweat.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.” She stood up, trying to meet him on level ground. It was hard when he was a full head taller, chin digging into the soft folds of his tunic as he looked down at her. She tried to summon a smile, but the most she could manage was a halfhearted grimace.

“We aren’t… this new chapter came as a shock to us both.”  _ That  _ was as honest as she could be; she let out a small breath of relief, hearing sincerity ring true in every word. “I never expected a Story to be written about me. Ever.”

“Me either.” He cleared his throat. “I… I confess that I’m still unable to wrap my head around it. But the Storyteller’s words were clear,” he continued, his tone one of dutiful reverence. “Our mar—our union is a favorable one in his eyes. Even if we do not understand it, we are bound by his word.”

“Without fail, everything written in the Story comes true,” she agreed. The words were often repeated around Labyrinthia, but never before had they sounded so hollow, entirely without substance. Sir Barnham, not hearing the same emptiness she did, merely nodded.

“Aye. Without fail.” He paused, breath hitching unsteadily. “And… I also wanted to say that… that you needn’t worry.”

“…Worry?” He didn’t respond, instead stepping closer until only a breath could pass between them. He reached for her hand and she froze, unsure of what he was doing, unsure of what  _ she  _ should do. Her hand lay limply in his, gold on silver; it seemed oddly bulky, even compared to his much larger gauntlet.

“Despite what our feelings are, I plan to… I  _ will  _ be a good husband to you,” he vowed. “I promise here, on the day of our Story, to honor and uphold you as my wife. And… and, if the need should ever arise, I will protect you with my life.”

What the hell was she supposed to say to that?! He was actually  _ bashful _ , his voice dropping to a whisper, gaze softening as he looked earnestly at her. Shyness smoothed the corners of his face, scars and all, until it seemed almost boyish in the fading afternoon light.

“You will never have to concern yourself with my actions,” he promised, nodding slightly as if agreeing with his own words. “I swear that I will never give you cause to be ashamed of taking my name.”

“I—I couldn’t be, I don’t think.”  _ Where did that come from!?  _ “B-but I do appreciate the sentiment, Sir Barnham.”

“You needn’t—considering everything, I believe you might call me by my name.”

“What?”

“My given name, that is. Zacharias.” He chewed his lower lip, musing. “Or… or Zack. My closest comrades call me such. I wouldn’t mind if you did as well.” Her entire face, ears and all, were on fire; she couldn’t even pretend it was all sunburn at this point.

“Oh.” She knew that the latter would never leave her lips.  _ Zack  _ was far too informal, even if they were going to be— She knew that Arthur would want her to make whatever choice guaranteed her the closest connection possible, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. And if he thought Sir Barnham to be too formal, then there was only one middle ground available: the one he’d offered her himself.

“Alright… Zacharias.” It seemed odd on her tongue, especially after years of calling him by his surname. But he smiled at the sound—a real smile, crooked and with more teeth on display than his practiced ‘Court Inquisitor’ grin. “And I suppose I should offer you the same courtesy, shouldn’t I?” she added as an afterthought. “Please call me Eve.”

“Eve.” His voice softened the syllable into something close to a sigh.  _ No one says my name like that. It’s… it’s nice.  _ “I like it. It suits you.”

“Oh.” She was quickly being reduced to single word answers. His hand still held hers, fingers curling around her gauntlet when she tried to remove it. “I—”

“Ah. I promised not to take up any more of your time than necessary, and yet it would seem that I’m doing that very thing.” He laughed nervously. “My men will wonder if I’m not back in time for the evening meal, so… I will take my leave of you.” He bowed, pressing the back of her gauntlet chivalrously to his lips before releasing her.

“I… I’ll see you.” His brow quirked but he acknowledged her hesitant dismissal, nearly stepping into a salute and seeming to think better of it.

“Good-bye, Eve.”

“Goodbye… Zacharias.”  _ I don’t think I’ll get used to that. _

With one final bow he left, retracing his steps to return the way he’d come. Eve watched him go, confused and shaken without understanding why. Her hand felt odd, tingly almost, even though he’d done nothing more than touch her through the gauntlet.

_ You’re overthinking things,  _ she admonished herself.  _ You’re tired, hungry, and sunburnt. You need to go back to the manor, take a hot bath, and get something to eat.  _ Those were all good suggestions.

She did none of them, standing alone in the Square as the bell tower, aided by the dying sun, cast a dismal shadow over everything in its path. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Act I! I hope that y'all enjoyed. :3


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